Perspectives
by silvereyedbitch
Summary: Sherlock tries to deduce John's issue. It's bothering him very much. Then, cue Moriarty as a twist. Maybe a touch of Sheriarty? Hilarity, angst, and then some Johnlock when I finish probably! But who knows?... ;)
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, I just like to play!

Summary: Sherlock tries to deduce John's issue. It's bothering him very much. Hilarity and then some Johnlock when I finish probably! ;)

Warning: M/M, Johnlock, my own brand of stupid writing.

A/N: Sorry I won't be able to update on my fics as often as I used to, but I started a new job, and it's sucking my time awaaaaaaayyyy! Should be weekly, though, I'm hoping. Although reviews and messages always give me the strength to stay up just a bit later to go for completion! Hint hint!

**Perspectives**

Warmth. Comfort. _Mmmmm…_ The weekend! For one very tired ex-army doctor, an extended sleep-in this morning was just what he would have ordered for any one of his own patients. Hands clasped over his abdomen, and duvet to his chest, he was as relaxed as he was ever likely to get nowadays. He smiled, eyes still closed, and felt quite content to just float in this in-between state of sleep and non-sleep for a while. And he did, but only for a few minutes. Best to get up before his flatmate awakened and realized the doctor had slept in. He didn't like it when Sherlock ever caught him sleeping. Experiments would generally ensue. Most often of a bizarre and oddly disquieting fashion. And messy. Always messy.

He rather liked this lazy feeling, though. No wonder Sherlock never picks up a job (besides the fact that he'd be fired shortly after hiring on). _Maybe I could start cutting down on how many days a week I take at the clinic?_ he thought as he put off waking for just another minute. He sighed inwardly, his already-closed eyes scrunching up, _Nah, as soon as I did, Sherlock would break things, and we'd need the extra money to fix something. Or replace it entirely…_ He shook his head, so much for daydreams of semi-retirement; time to get up and make sure the overgrown child he lived with did something productive with his time today. Like _**not**_ seeing how far an egg could be projected through a window by use of a sock as a sling. John's sock. _Never gonna be able to wear that sock again_, he thought whimsically. Because for all that the detective's experiments and social inadequacies annoyed him and created problems, so too did they amuse and endear him to the younger man. Life, was never boring. Then he opened his eyes.

His hands shot down to his sides in alarm, grasping tightly to the covers. Adrenaline burst through his arteries, speeding his heart and heightening his awareness. Blood, so much of it. It covered the ceiling in great sprays. And part of the wall by the window, running down toward the floorboards. Fear chased his previous happy thoughts away. He gasped in a bit of air and was about to scream for the flat's other hopefully-living occupant when he noticed his left hand was touching something, and he turned to find a certain dark haired detective lying beside him with his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling as if contemplating a masterful sculpture or oil canvas. John screamed, a most manful yell if you asked him later, and promptly fell off the side of the bed hitting the ground with an eye opening THUMP. He groaned.

"John," came the unperturbed baritone, "tell me the first thoughts that flitted through your mind as you saw that."

"Ungghhhh," the doctor moaned into his floorboards.

"Well, you can wait if you want, but it's better for the observations to come out now, while they're still fresh in your mind. No further moan was forthcoming.

The only thing "fresh" in his mind at the moment was throttling the taller man until one of them felt better. Preferably himself, though he imagined the detective would find some use for the data gathered on how much pressure was needed to actually render him unconscious. John glared at his hands, now fisted in anger against the floor. _Was I seriously just thinking about how interesting it is to have him pull these sorts of things_? _Shit_. He pushed up and stood to look over the serenely composed man lying on his bed. So relaxed, as if he hadn't just sent another human being into a terror of pre-heart attack proportions. Those mercurial eyes found his with a slight turn of the pale face.

"Well?"

"Sherlock, hhhmmm…get. out."

"I hardly see how…"

"Get. Out!"

"Yes fine. Waste of pig's blood then. Don't know where I'm going to find such a quantity again so soon. I only needed a bit of input from an outside perspective. These trials don't run themselves…" he continued to grouse as he left John's room and hurried down the stairs. Probably to pick up on some other abandoned project that would burn a hole in something. John sat down on the edge of his bed, ran his hand through his short cropped hair, and blew out a loud breath as he stared on at the drippy bits of blood that had run down the wall and onto the floor. He nodded, then blinked; or perhaps he closed his eyes for a very long time, considering how long said blink lasted. He almost smiled, but ended up smirking instead. _Messy_.

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Downstairs, Sherlock reclined himself along the couch after a (very graceful) flop. "Bored!" he called out to the empty room, closing his eyes. He flicked the end of his dressing gown agitatedly off of himself and squirmed a bit. His eyes reopened, but were unfocused as he looked within. What was John's issue lately anyway? Something was off. Nothing definite. Nothing tangible. Nothing he could just outright _ask_ about. Certainly not that. He had tried that already, much good it did him…

**2 days earlier:**

John came down the hall toweling his hair dry, one hand operating the towel, the other clasping the paper he planned on thoroughly reading the crap out of this morning. The last few had fueled the fire for the detective's "cooking" lessons, in which he had taught himself. And failed. The doctor was looking over the front page, bad news as usual, all of it, when…

"Ah, John! What's the matter with you lately anyway?" cried an exuberant Sherlock as he dropped several feet from the ceiling, whereon he had installed two hand bars to hang from late last night. He landed within a foot of John as the doctor came out of the hall and into the living area. The older man staggered back in shock, heart racing. Until his mind cleared up what had happened and explained it to the rest of him. Then he promptly restored himself, walked right up to the dark haired man, and whacked him on the nose like a bad bad doggy. He pushed his way by a now-bewildered detective and sat down to read _his_ paper.

**Present:**

Yes, that direct approach hadn't gone well at all. And he had thought he was being very casual and non-confrontational about the whole thing. Pah! There was no accounting for people's strange reactions to his friendly overtures. John's behavior was bothersome, though, and he really did worry that something was truly wrong under the surface. It wasn't anything big. Just little things, like how John wasn't quite as friendly to strangers, or how he didn't even fight Angelo anymore at the candle placement on their table. He just stared at it in what one could almost call defeat. He fought more with the stupid checkout machines at the Tesco. He'd actually broken one last time. He didn't tell Sherlock that, but the younger man deduced it instantly. He hadn't seen John out on a date, or even talking about prospective dates, for at least five months now. Perhaps a sort of midlife crisis? _Good luck bringing that up in conversation_…. Then an idea struck him. He hadn't had a case in a good while, and he _was_ bored, so perhaps this could be the case of John Watson? Obviously John was suffering from something so subtle that he couldn't even recognize it for himself. So perhaps an outside perspective would be of value? Yes! He'd deduce his friend's problem soon enough, and then they'd be back to normal, and he wouldn't have to worry. He didn't like worrying. It made him feel vulnerable. Normal. Human. His eyes narrowed in distaste. _Disgusting_.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had plotted and pondered all day as John went out for their errands, paying bills, milk and such. And for once, he was glad of John's absence, if only because it kept the other man from noticing Sherlock noticing _him_. His mind was stuck in a circular pattern, coming around always to begin right back with the same question. What is it that is so _off_ about the doctor? He couldn't quite pin down any one specific thing. And the more he tried to define it, the more elusive it became, dissipating like fog in sunlight. The way John walked just a few inches off of his usual predictable path from the bedroom to the kitchen in the morning. The way he set he his cup with the handle an inch more to the left. The way he now started down the stairs with his left foot instead of the right. The way he crossed and uncrossed his legs more often than he ever had before. What was it?! Sherlock groaned aloud and relaxed into his armchair, head thrown back to stare unseeing at the ceiling, eventually closing his eyes. He lost himself in the thoroughfares of his mind palace within moments and the inner sanctity it possessed, staying that way for an hour or more before returning to the waking world.

Then an idea came to him, and if his eyes had been open, they would have squinted in thought. Perhaps he should _write down_ all of these little differences he was coming up with and look at them all together on one page. That could be useful for finding some sort of correlation between the oddities. _Right, let's do that_. "John. Pen." he said to the empty room, palm upraised. His eye cracked open and rolled sideways to scan the living area. _Oh yes. Milk. Tesco. Boring_. His head came back up and forward, and he saw the pen and paper lying across the way on the coffee table by the couch. He sighed, _Too far. So much for that idea_.

Then he saw John's laptop sitting right across from him on the other man's chair. _Perfect_! He quickly had it open and was ready to research…something. But what? Damn. He sunk back into the chair as he thought. _All this time evaluating a problem and getting nowhere can mean only one thing to me_. Then he made a face as he thought, _Emotions_. Of course! The sure way to confound the world's only consulting detective would be to involve some sort of deeply seated emotional connection with the issue. Feelings were so alien and intrusive to Sherlock; he couldn't fathom them. Not because he never felt anything, but because he was so quick to grind them out and redirect them that he never actually allowed himself to experience them . They were merely rechanneled to another venue of his. Or maybe they became confined within a small storage space that grew ever more narrow as the years went by?... He shrugged half-heartedly. Who cares?

So, emotions it is then. _Need expert consultation_. He popped up the search bar. _Hmmm. How to word this? Help with an emotional person? No. He's not just another person. My friend is emotional? No. He's not just a "friend," he's THE friend. Those don't fit. It needs to be specific to our particular relationship for it to hold any value. He is my friend, my best friend, my colleague, my equal… Perhaps…ah! Partner. John is my partner! In crime, in detective work, in adventure, and also as a flatmate. There we go_! He typed: "I don't understand my partner's emotional state." Several results popped up, and the detective began to scan them all for what he was looking for. And after several minutes scrolling around, his eyes fell upon what he sought. The title line read: "Emotional issues with your partner? Let us help! Chat with our experts in emotional affairs." Perfect! He opened a chat box and started to answer the basic questions that would direct him to the appropriate chat host.

Your sex: Male. _I guess they do need to know that_. Length of current relationship: 2 years. _I suppose that's what they mean, _he thought as he typed the number in, _how long we've been friends. _Marriage status: Not. _What an odd question for an emotional assistance site_. Select the best answer: Is this in regard to Sex, Communication, Career, Infidelity, Trust Issues, Finances, or Emotional Distancing? The detective pursed his lips and leaned forward. _Well, I suppose it could be under "career" due to us working together on cases_. But then he moved the mouse pointer away from that selection as he rethought, _Or maybe it should be "emotional distancing?" _He thought for a split second_. Yes. I'm positive. Because if my emotions weren't so __**distanced**__ from myself, then I would be able to resolve this issue on my own_. He clicked the final question's box and submitted his answers.

Within 20 seconds, a line of text within a chat box appeared on his screen, saying, "Hi, I'm Cyndy! How can I help you through your relationship issue today?" Sherlock made a slight bemused smirk. _Must be an American site; they word their questions so oddly. Relationship issues. Do they say "relationship" in regard to all of their friendships? Foolish_. He typed:

**My partner has been acting rather strangely lately. Nothing specific, just off**.

_Are they often angry or depressed?_

**No. Simply apathetic it seems**.

_Oh. I see you've been with each other for 2 years. Probably needs some special attention._

**Special attention. Like what**?

_Surprises are always nice._

**I tried a surprise and it backfired. Badly. Got thwacked with a newspaper**.

_Oh! Goodness! What did you try?_

**I dropped from the ceiling and asked a question**.

_Oh. Well, I meant like buying little gifts or something. You know, to show appreciation._

**Oh. People do that sort of thing for their partners**?

_Yes. All the time. The key is to find what the other person really loves, admires, and likes. Then, try to create small ways of working them into your routine to let them know that you pay attention to these kinds of details. Makes people feel special._

**Hmm. Well, I shall give it a try**.

And with that, he snapped the laptop shut, leaving Cyndy hanging on the other end. _Things about John. Things that he likes_. He snickered to himself. _Jumpers and boring women. No need for more of those, though._ He knew some of the crap telly shows the doctor watched, but that hardly seemed inspiring. And the older man's favored brand of tea didn't spark any ideas for him either. _Something he loves; something that I can use to show him I notice things about him_. This shouldn't be so hard. He was in the business of noticing things about people, whether they wanted it or not. He bent forward, roughing up his dark curls as if he could shake ideas from them. He then raked his hands down his face, ending with them steepled beneath his chin. How brain-blastingly tepid his mind seemed at this moment. He needed _something_. Something big. Something John wouldn't expect. And then…_Yes! That's it! _He leaped to his feet, laptop falling to the rug_. Christmas!_

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John returned to the flat in the late afternoon with bags of shopping filling his arms. Sherlock, of course, was nowhere to be seen, and not about to trot down the stairs to help anyway. He sighed as he made his slow and careful way up to the flat, stopping by Mrs. Hudson's door first to place the bread he had picked up for her outside of it. He struggled at the last two steps, getting his feet twisted about each other, but finally pushed into the hall and kitchen without spilling everything onto the floor.

Odd how quiet it was. But he pushed the thought away. Sherlock must have gone out. At least he'd be able to relax for a small bit, maybe have some tea and a bit of crap telly before dinner. Happy with that course of events, he finished putting things up and was about to start thinking of dinner plans for later when a blinking caught his eye. _Eh?_ And he turned to the living area, where the door had been slid mostly shut, obstructing the view. There were strange lights, like that of a police car, flashing through the room it seemed. _Wonder what the police are doing on our street?_ And then a small chill went through him as he considered what he had just thought. He quickly walked to the door and slid it aside, full of trepidation, and stepped into something totally unexpected.

He stared in shock, in awe, in surprise, in complete flabbergastedness at…at….Christmas. _What the hell?_ There, all over their living area, was just about every type of Christmas decoration one person could conceivably purchase and cram into one room. There were stockings on the fireplace, tinsel running the length of the room and ringing the windows, colored lights EVERYWHERE (even the furniture), a big plastic glowing Santa in between the armchairs, an inflatable snowman at the door, glittering confetti scattered about the entire floor, silver glowing stars suspended from the ceiling, and dozens upon dozens of other decorations piled into the space. The center of the room held a tree of ten feet, sprayed with fake snow and shining with white lights. _What. Is. This!?_

"Happy Christmas!" cried Sherlock, suddenly bursting from behind the tree, complete with a red Santa hat and a jingling bell held within one hand. He was smiling one of those indescribable smiles that led one to think one of two things had happened: 1) he had finally gone insane. 2) he had killed someone and was trying to distract attention away from it. Either way, no good. John looked him over, his initial surprise dwindling as he solidly remembered just how strange his flatmate could be. He leveled his gaze at the beaming detective.

"Sherlock."

"Yes, John?"

"What is this?" the doctor asked slowly, and with a small, but curt, gesture of his hand.

"Christmas, John."

"Mmhmm." Frowning, eyes closed, head down, fist clenched as he thought of the mess.

"Don't you like it?"

"I don't understand it," slipped through clenched teeth.

"It's Christmas!"

"Sherlock. It's July."

"….?"

"You _really_ don't…nevermind."

John turned and walked back into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to stand there wondering what had just happened. Where was the happy exclamation that his favorite holiday had come to visit in the middle of the year? Where was the thank you, Sherlock, you've really made my day? I'm so happy that you did this? I'm all better now, so we can continue on like nothing was ever wrong in the first place? His shoulders slumped. Where had he gone wrong? John loved Christmas. He thought for a bit, then decided that maybe this just hadn't been part of the problem. That's why it hadn't worked. Normal John would have surely been overjoyed. But since John was Odd-John now, he reacted differently. So, it wasn't that John just needed a happy little surprise to fix the issue. Well then. What next? He glanced at the kitchen, where John was bashing pots around ferociously, then his eyes flicked to the laptop. _Better ask Cyndy what her next bit of advice is. Don't worry, John, I'll fix this. Fix you._


	3. Chapter 3

Day 3…

**Cyndy?**

Several seconds went by before a reply came on the chat screen. He positioned and repositioned himself in the chair as he waited, unable to cease fidgeting.

_This is Robert, how may I assist you with your relationship issues today?_

**You're not Cyndy.**

_No. But I can help you if…_

**I need Cyndy. She is already familiar with my case, and I do not think this is the time or place to bring new people into the issues being discussed. It is basic continuity of care. I have already established a rapport with Cyndy and believe her to be of good, sound mind. Yourself, I have no background or data for, and so your knowledge, and therefore advice, is suspect.**

…..

**Get Cyndy.**

….

….

….

_This is Cyndy, how may I assist you with your relationship issues today?_

**Ah, Cyndy. Thank goodness. Some Robert person was trying to analyze the situation in which you've already begun to be of service.**

_Well…_

_Well, I am ready to help you again. Remind me of your issue and where you are with it?_

**I told you that my partner is rather apathetic lately, and you recommended I first try something surprising.**

_Oh, okay. So how did that go?_

**Horribly. Shouting. He tore some of it down. Said I made a mess. Stomped off and didn't speak for the rest of the night.**

_Oh. Well. I guess surprises aren't his thing then. How about something interesting for the two of you to do together? Something you both like?_

**Hmm. Has promise. I shall keep you updated on the progress.**

And he snapped the laptop closed, cutting Cyndy off once again. _Something we both like?_ His mind wove over their usual activities together and what seemed to make John happy. Of course, John was a fairly positive man in general, so many things seemed to make him happy, which complicated it a bit. How to pick from so many? _I should focus instead on something that __**I**__ like to do that __**he**__ wouldn't be averse to_. It took him all of three minutes to leap from his seated position in his armchair, pumped full of the ingenious idea he had. _Have to call Molly_. His heart beat faster at the thought of solving John's case with such a simple activity. The clock showed ten past two. Should be enough time. He glanced around the flat. _Where to do it?_

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John came home from work feeling positively wrung out of all sympathy for the human race. Such strange patients he had. He shook his head. The last lady that had come in was the winner. She hadn't had sex in over 3 years, (_join the ever growing crowd of the celibate, _he thought), and the other night she had done it for the first time since then. And she said that her partner had been too large for her, and now she was chafing "down there." Really... _At least you're getting some_, he thought, rather jealous of the large woman. He sighed as he put the key in the door, thinking of how badly he'd reacted yesterday.

_He was only trying to be nice, in his own strange way. He's like a child sometimes, and I need to stop reacting so suddenly. Maybe I'll apologize after dinner. He's probably in a snit and gone off somewhere anyway_, he thought as he pushed in and began to climb the stairs. He hung his coat on the hook as he passed by and spared a glance for Mrs. Hudson's flat. _Should maybe check on her, too. She probably heard all the yelling I did and chose to stay away for a while_.

His mind was browsing over thoughts of bills, chores, and other mundane matters when he opened the door of the flat to find himself almost walking right on top of a very overweight man lying on the floor. He did a double-take. A very _dead_ overweight man lying on the floor. He backpedaled and almost fell into the detective's arms as the other man came up from behind him.

"John. You're home a bit early. Well, no matter! What do you see?"

"I'm….I…um… Sherlock. There is a dead man. On our floor. Why…?" It seemed not even a question as it left his mouth.

"Very succinct, John. He _is_ dead, but I was hoping to go a bit further."

"Where did he come from?!"

"Ah, the right question. He died two days ago in a very questionable 'massage parlor,' and now he is here."

John growled, yes _growled_, as he put his face down and massaged his temple. Had he really just been thinking that _he_ would be the one to apologize here? _Don't hit him, don't hit him, don't hit him…_

"So you're telling me, that there is…a dead man…in our flat…on the floor…because…?"

"Practice, John! C'mon! Deduce with me! I know you enjoy it, so go on, this one's for you. I brought him here special…so you….could…um, John? Why are you holding your keys that way?"

John glanced down at his hand where he saw that his keys appeared to be readying themselves for battle, knuckles white as he practically strangled them. He sighed, shoulders slumping, and walked over, past the dead man, and dropped them on the chair table. He stayed facing away from Sherlock and into the fireplace for several moments, breathing in and out. Sherlock remained beside the dead man looking alternately at John and then the body at his feet. He sensed something was amiss. _Have I misjudged?_ No, that couldn't be it. _John loves cases, and since I haven't had one in a while, I know he would normally appreciate this. _Something else is wrong, then. A confounding variable_. Ah! He must've had a bad day in the clinic, and he's too tired; and therefore, he's angry that he's missing this opportunity._ Yes, that's it. _I suppose I would be put out, too._ He stepped toward John just a bit before speaking.

"John, I can see now that I've caught you at a bad time. I'm sorry. I'll just take this back, and we'll have dinner and watch crap telly in a bit, alright? Sorry you didn't get to enjoy it, but I'll make sure next time that you haven't had such a trying day first."

Suddenly, there was a voice drifting up the stairs, "Oo hoo! Boys! I've got some fresh cakes on their way up to you! Look out now!" And John's mind buzzed to a stop. Mrs. Hudson? _Oh, shit_. He looked to the body and then to the door. The detective remained motionless, watching him with seeming bemusement as the doctor suddenly leaped forward and ran to slam the door shut. John leaned back against it and called out to his landlady.

"Oh, very, um, good of you, Mrs. Hudson! Thank you. But, um… Me and Sherlock are….um, rather engaged in…something, at the moment. So…could I come down for them…in just a minute…later? Please?"

He listened intently as her footsteps stopped just before their door. A momentary silence passed before she said, with an implied wink in her voice, "Oh, I understand, John! I didn't see a thing! You two just continue on with your _something_, and I'll be downstairs when you're ready for those cakes!" She even tittered a little in laughter as her voice began retreating down to her own flat. John's head hit the door as he realized what she thought of them.

"No! It's not that! Mrs. Hudson? Are you still there? Hello?! I'm _not_ ga…." Enormous sigh, and another knocking of the head against the wood of the door. "Damn; I give up." He turned to face his friend, who wore something of a quizzical expression now, and then he walked back over to his chair, preferring not to remain close to the corpse.

Sherlock shrugged at John's behavior and continued on as if Mrs. Hudson hadn't ever interrupted them in the first place. He began to struggle with dragging the poor man's naked corpse toward the stairs, utilizing the sheet that had been placed beneath it to facilitate sliding. John came to his senses, though, upon remembering the "next time" portion of Sherlock's interrupted apology. _Next time?! _Fists clenched at his sides.He could feel his face turning redder by the minute, and he spun around just as the dead man's feet were leaving the room.

"No! No 'next time!' Not _this_, Sherlock! This is….is…more than even a bit not good. It's horrid!"

John angrily stomped over and through into the kitchen, banging pots and things around as he searched for things to cook the living hell out of. Maybe some offending vegetables he could mutilate with a knife, or a fork, or hell, whatever else was handy. Bare hands was starting to look appealing at the moment. And he called out, just as Sherlock was about to go out through the back of the ground floor of the flat, "It's awful, you bringing that man here. Judging from the overall appearance of his health, and the condition of his, er, um, member…the poor sod obviously was just having it off at the 'massage parlor' and had a heart attack during it. It's not _right_ bringing that kind of shame down on the deceased, Sherlock!" More banging, slamming, and then some chopping followed the statement.

The angry and admonishing words floated down to the detective. And true, they were meant to be punitive in nature. But what Sherlock heard was: Unhealthy, overweight, late fifty-ish, deceased male with obvious signs of arousal that had been halted abruptly. _Very_ abruptly. Probably mid-coitus. And he had subsequently died. From a cardiac arrest. _Obviously_. He grinned to himself as he almost tripped and fell over the doorstep while dragging the body through to the back alley. He was so proud of John!


	4. Chapter 4

Day 4…

**Where are you, Cyndy?**

**I have news, and I need more suggestions. **

**Don't make me hack your computer.**

**I will.**

_Hello? Sorry, I just got off the chat with another client._

**I'm here now. Delete them.**

_Of course, Mr. Redbeard. How can I help you today then? Jog my memory; are you the one who was going to be doing something fun together with his partner?_

**Redbeard is the ridiculous screen name I was forced to use to sign up here. It is childish and rather fantasy bound. Please refrain from referring to me with it. **

_Alright. Um, what shall I call you then?_

…..

…..

…..

**Redbeard is fine. Nevermind.**

_So anyway, sir, are you the one who was supposed to be doing something fun with his partner?_

**Yes. But I don't see how you can fail to remember such things. Honestly, how many people can possibly be asking you for advice every day other than myself? There can't be so many in my position.**

_Just speaking for myself, I generally end up chatting with anywhere from 20-50 clients per day._

…..

…..

**I see. This only serves to exhibit your expertise to me. It is invaluable, which is why I refuse any of your other associates.**

_Thank you, I guess. So how did it go with the idea to do something together?_

**This time, it worked somewhat. He acted as though he didn't like it at first, but by the end of the activity, he was participating.**

_Oh, well good then. Seems like we're on the right track. He likes to do things with you, so you should definitely try to incorporate that with any future attempts at fixing this issue._

**Yes well, still not fixed. What next? Don't be boring.**

_Well, have you tried maybe doing something for him that he could never do for himself? Not just something he likes, but something he'd never do for himself. _

**I don't understand. If you like something, why not do it? What prevents you?**

_For example, some people may like the idea of going to a spa or a resort, but they would never spend their own money on something like that for themselves. _

**Ah, I see. Something John can't do, or can't afford, for himself. Yes. **

_So his name is John?_

**No.**

_Could you really hack my work computer?_

…..

_Hello?_

_Gone again I see_.

Sherlock's mind worked fiercely. Perfect. This was perfection! He whipped his phone from his pocket and began to energetically text Mycroft.

**My, you there? -SH**

…**..**

**Yes, what brother dear? –MH**

**I need something. –SH**

**Something for John. –SH**

**Oh? Intriguing… -MH**

**Shut up. I'll owe you. –SH**

**Then I look forward to the details… -MH**

Sherlock tucked his phone back in his pocket, settling down in front of the laptop again. He opened another window over the one with Cyndy's last question hovering in it so as to email the information to Mycroft. _Excellent, _he thought as he typed in John's bank account information. _John won't have to work as much after this. So we can spend more time on cases together_. Effectively, what he was sending Mycroft would get John's debts settled and cleared. For while the doctor himself had made no large material purchases, his sister, Harry, had gotten in far too deep a few times and had caused John to take out a large loan to cover her. So he was essentially in debt for someone else. _Ridiculous_, Sherlock thought as he smiled inwardly, completing the last line.

He skipped down to a new paragraph and began the second half of his request. This part would just be icing on the cake, but it was essential nonetheless. He cross-checked himself on the internet, to be sure that his aim was guided to the correct identity. And once confirmed, he sent the email off to Mycroft and texted to let him know it was done and on its way to him. It took a bare moment for the British Government to reply via text once he had read the email.

**My my. That will be some favor you owe me, Sherlock. –MH**

…**..**

…**..**

**Very well. Consider it done. –MH**

Sherlock smiled to himself as he leaned back and waited for John to come home…

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John's feet ached. His head ached. His back ached. His shoulders ached. Oh, and his ass ached; not for any particular reason. He supposed his backside just wanted to get in on the aching action, too. What a day in the clinic! Snooty, snotty people everywhere. No one wanted to just wrap in a blanket and eat soup at home anymore when they got a cold. No. They all wanted an instant fix. An enchanted wand. A magic pill. And they didn't like it when they were told that they needed to A) go home and wrap in a blanket, and B) eat some soup. He sighed loudly as he hung his coat on the hook. _God save me. If the flat's in flames from Sherlock's experiments, I think I'll just lie down and let them burn me to ashes_.

He had placed one heavy foot on the first step when suddenly the detective burst forth from the door above, almost tumbling down the stairs in his haste. If John hadn't been so bone tired, it would have been entertaining actually, watching the usually fluid and graceful Sherlock Holmes catch himself awkwardly on the railing, slip down to a seated position, and then slide bumpily down a few of the stairs to where John was.

"John. C'mon! There's something you need to see. Or do. I'm not sure which. Maybe both."

"Sherlock, I'm really not…."

"No no no, John. You need to come _now_. This minute. Come." And the younger man pushed past him and was on to the door where he threw it open and turned to feign great patience with the doctor. John looked forlornly up at the entrance to the flat, sighed once more with his head down, and then pivoted to follow his friend. Whatever it is, it must be exciting. _And maybe that will take my mind off of this shit day_.

Sherlock had bounded out of the door as soon as he ascertained that John really was following him. And lo and behold, as usual, John saw a taxi pull right up as soon as the tall man hailed. _How does he do that? I mean, really, I'm not __**that**__ short_… He groused about in his head as he climbed in, just missing where Sherlock had informed the driver to take them. _Wonder if I get to know before we get there_? And then he just shut that thought out. It didn't matter really. As long as he wasn't at work, at _**that**_ _**place**_, he was okay for now. His head whipped toward the detective as a question directed at himself got repeated.

"The name of that man, John, the one you told me was so horrible to you in the military? It was Martin Pendek, right?

"Huh?"

"You told me a while back that there was a man named Martin Pendek who had raped two of your female friends and had tried to get you kicked out of the service. He was never actually convicted. That was his name, correct?"

"Um, yeah. Yes, it is. Was. Whatever. Why?"

"No reason. Just rearranging files in my mind and came across it."

The detective turned to stare out the window as John's eyes narrowed in suspicion. _What is going on with him? First all this weird nonsense about Christmas, then a body, now we're off to God knows where and he's dredging up memories of bad people. Something's up with him._ But the detective just continued to stare off into the distance as the city passed them by, nothing suspicious about him at all. Except that he was Sherlock Holmes…

John's line of mental inquiry came to halt as they pulled up in front of the bank, causing the doctor to look quizzically at the detective as they did. Had there been a robbery? That seemed somehow too boring for Sherlock. So maybe a robbery turned homicide? But there were no officers to be seen around the perimeter. Perhaps it was just another private-hire job like the Blind Banker case? He paid the cabbie as Sherlock once again leapt away, like an eager puppy brought down to the beach. And he caught up with him as he stood outside of the large double doors of glass.

He was just about to ask Sherlock about this case, when the other man smiled, as if deliberately trying to evade speaking, and pushed the doors open, entering and heading immediately for one of the private rooms in the back where loan officers were located. Sherlock went to the small desk in front of all the little offices and handed his ID to the receptionist, who phoned someone after glancing at it. _Great, he's probably been here before and caused a ruckus_, John thought as he waited in tense silence.

From a back hallway, a tall man with silver hair emerged. Immaculately clad in suit and tie, he reached out his hand to Sherlock, saying, "Ah, he called just before you got here, and I've just managed to bring all the paperwork together for signing." The man then turned to John, saying, "And you must be the lucky Dr. John Watson? Pleasure to meet you. My name is Robbie Silvent, and I will be assisting you with this closing." The man had turned back to Sherlock and motioned for them to follow him into one of the offices, leaving John to follow after, mouthing the word: _Closing_?

They sat across from Mr. Silvent, and he slid a small stack of paperwork towards them before exclaiming, "Oh, excuse me, I forgot to bring a pen. How ridiculous. Just look over these, and I'll be right back." And as he exited the room, John picked up the papers and saw what was on them. And freaked. To put it mildly. Standing as he did so, so he could look down at the puppy-eyed detective, he began to overload with words. Lots of them. Bad ones.

"Sherlock! What is this about?! And how did you…? When did…? There was supposed to be a… Harry didn't… Hhmm…" He collected himself, head down, with thumb and index finger to his forehead. Prioritize. There was only one immediate question needing answering.

"Why?"

Sherlock seemed almost shocked to hear this, but he answered all the same.

"Because you would never do this for yourself, John. Never be able to. And it's not fair to hold debt because of something someone else has done. And now, without it, you won't…John…John, are you listening? You've got that funny coloring again. Did you hear me? With this paid off, you won't have to…John? John….? ….."

John's mind was so filled with the shock of his private finances being violated that he first thought he would end up finally killing his friend after all. Where did he _get_ this idea? His hands dropped to his sides, and his eyes closed; he breathed slowly in and out. The loan official had started to come back in during this time, but a look from the detective had sent the man back out. And slowly, so slowly, John worked his mind around the concept of his private life being violated and dealt with it. Then he considered that his flatmate was very much like a child, and so he probably thought this was an okay thing to do. And actually, when he thought more on it, he could see that his emotionally constipated friend was trying very hard to make him happy for some reason he couldn't fathom. He sighed as he considered that he was going to need to create a rulebook for Sherlock to follow in order to prevent these sorts of things. Scratch that. Sherlock would just think it was a new game in which he was supposed to find ways around those very same rules. John thought that maybe he really _did_ deserve gifts and wellwishes on Father's Day. After all, he was raising one of the biggest children he had ever met.

He looked up at the younger man, seeing the tentative disappointment in his eyes because he had thought he was doing something good. Gah, this was ridiculous_. But still, he is my best friend. Better not crush him too bad._

"Sherlock, I can't accept this. It's not my money."

"Of course not. It's Mycroft's."

"What?! It's Mycro-?!… No. No. It doesn't matter whose it is. It's not _mine_. And if it came from Mycroft, then it's taxpayer money. Money that isn't mine by right. I can't take this. It will make me no better than those who just sit on welfare systems and live off of other taxpayers. Can't you see that? Please, Sherlock?"

"Are you sure we can't? It still seems fine to _me_."

"Of course I'm sure. Look, I wouldn't steal, right? And that's essentially what this would be. I'd be taking money from people who worked for it, and I can't have that. What if someone else needed that money? I don't want anyone to suffer on my account; not financially, mentally, or even physically." Sherlock twitched at that last line, interrupting for a question.

"Not even Martin Pendek?"

"I- What?"

"Martin Pendek. You wouldn't want him to suffer, even die for the pain he caused?"

"I, uh…no. No, I would want justice done. A trial and sentencing. I guess." This switch in conversation topic had thrown John off balance.

"I…see," said Sherlock thoughtfully, his hand suspiciously sliding behind his back. "I suppose you should tell Mr. Silvent," he said as he waved the man over from where he waited a little ways away from the room. "Just tell him you are second-thinking for now, John," he gestured toward the incoming employee, one hand remaining behind him. And as John focused his attention elsewhere, Sherlock texted with his hidden hand furiously.

**Wipe the news. Take out all mention of Pendek's sudden demise. Abort! -SH**

He waited anxiously as John chatted with Mr. Silvent. Finally, his phone vibrated as a response came in.

**Done and done, brother mine. I am growing confused of your motives of late. –MH **

Relief flooded through the detective. This case of John Watson was going terribly. Why did anyone ever willingly seek out friendship? Everything he had tried seemed to backfire. Although, he could tell, just at the end there, that John had been somewhat touched by the idea of Sherlock trying to do something nice for him. So it wasn't a total loss. He'd have to contact Cyndy right away tomorrow. Thank God John didn't read his news at night, so Mycroft had all night to rid the internet and other venues of the headline story: Grisly End Met by Military Rapist. What a waste of a favor…


	5. Chapter 5

Day 5…

This day, the air was warm and cheery; so rare an occurrence in a part of the world where windy and wet drafts tended to dominate. This day, a light breeze fluttered by, almost carelessly caressing the passerby on the sidewalk. This day, birds seemed to find reason in just about anything to break into song. And, if one sat on the banks of the Thames on _this_ day, the brilliance of the sunlight dancing amongst the sparkling wavelets could mesmerize their cares away. Such perfection as could be found in _this_ day was normally reserved for those among the Heavens…

_Ping-Crack_! The rock zinged off of the wall where one of those annoying avian creatures had just been attempting such mesmerizing feats on a certain consulting detective…who held a slingshot….already reloaded. His silvery-blue eyes darted back and forth as he sought out whether his threat had been taken seriously by the pack of disease-ridden vermin. Better to do one more just to be certain they had taken the message to heart. A slow draw back, an aim at one particularly fat pigeon, and…_Crash_! The rock sailed straight through a window several feet below the offending fiend. And much as the rock dropped once its impetus had been slowed, so did a certain dark haired detective hit the floor and crawl to hidden safety, out of the view of the deceased window across the way.

A few spare minutes later, John walked by on his way down to grab his coat and head out for work. He caught sight of Sherlock just as the other man was leaping back up to his feet and righting himself, in a most suspicious manner. The younger man gazed down around himself suddenly in a pitiful attempt at pretending he had been looking fiercely for something on the floor. The doctor's eyebrow quirked up at this, his expression asking, _And why are you looking like you just did something wrong?_

A tilt of the dark haired head and an innocent widening of the eyes asked back, _Why would I do anything wrong?_

Golden blonde brows drew down, almost frowning now, with an expression that said, _Come on_.

_Nope, nothing of the sort,_ says the drop of eye contact and flick of an elegant hand over a bit of imaginary dust on the sleeve.

Another drawing down of the blonde brow states that… John shook his head suddenly, "What the _hell_, Sherlock? Now you've got _me_ doing it! It's not enough to communicate nonverbally with your own brother; now you've got to train _me_?!" The detective stood remote, his ever-shifting eyes attempting to send yet another voiceless message, which was met by, "Unbelievable!" And the door slammed as John turned and jogged down the stairs, off to work. Sherlock merely quirked one side of his mouth upwards and spun to face the window once more, noting that ample time had passed so that the birds should be back to roost by now. He glanced at the clock as he snuck up to the open glass. _Too early_, he thought. _Cyndy is in America. I have at least another 4-5 hours before she'll be available_. His eyes narrowed as he watched a pigeon alight on a nearby pole. It shifted its weight for a second or so before settling. _Thwack_!

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**Cyndy, where are you? **

…**..**

**Cyndy**

…**..**

**Cyndy**

…**..**

**Cyndy**

**Cyndy**

**Cyndy**

_Yes, I'm here! Sorry, I just got on shift_!

**I will have to locate your home number then, so we can converse at an earlier time**.

…..

…..

**That was a joke. I do make them from time to time. Do they not have jokes in America**?

_Oh right! LOL!_

_Wait a minute._

_How did you know I am in America?_

**So the last suggestion you made… It went…well, it went. He didn't approve of how I went about it, but he got the point, I'm sure.**

_Oh, good! Progress!_

**Yes. So I am looking for a more direct approach this time. Maybe. **

_You want to come on stronger? Well, that's good. Being direct is always appreciated I've found._

**Good. So what am I to do?**

_You really have not had much experience with these situations have you?_

**Irrelevant and incorrect. I have established relationships with many others before this.**

So what makes this one a special circumstance?

…..

…..

_Sorry, I didn't mean to pry. I'm just trying to get a feel of where you're coming from_.

…..

**He's…**

**Well he's…**

**Different.**

**I'm quite a hard person to be around…**

_I'm getting that…_

…**much less live with. And for some reason, he stays**.

_Ah! Sounds like a perfect pairing!_

**Yes, I have often thought so. He ignores my…unusual tendencies. And he appreciates the things about me that seem to utterly annoy other people.**

_Yes, you meeting was definitely divine intervention._

**While I hold all theories of creation to be of interest, I do not particularly subscribe to any one. **

**But I accept your conviction nonetheless.**

_Um. Thanks. I think._

_But anyway, let's get back to helping you through this!_

**Yes, let's**.

_So, so far now we've picked an activity together, done something nice for him, shown him you remember particulars about his likes/dislikes…and you want to be more direct… _

_I know! When was the last time you two went out together?_

**A few days back.**

_Where did you go?_

**To the police station.**

…..

_Okay, but when have you gone out together recently just for fun?_

…..

**I don't know.**

_That could be part of the problem!_

**I don't see it.**

_Please, take this advice: If you really wanna push the issue a little bit more, then you've gotta go out together. Be seen, you know?_

**Not particularly, but you are the consulting expert in these matters**.

_Here, let me find you a place to hang out. Give me a minute_.

…..

Sherlock's mind worked as Cyndy did whatever she was doing. _When have we ever just hung out outside of the flat? I can't remember if we ever really have, excepting a night at Angelo's every now and again. But John is more of a social butterfly than I. Perhaps he misses all the bore of mingling with other parts of humanity. That would be just like him._ He sighed loudly. _Socializing. With…people._ He shuddered, but thought, _John would like it. Cyndy is right. Again. She's really quite good at this thing._ Then he saw the screen pop up another message.

_Okay. I've found it. Maybe. But I need to know a bit about your status. Financially speaking. _

_Sorry, it's just that the place I'm finding online is pretty exclusive. Probably would take some major bribery or knowing someone to get in to._

**No worries there. I can make it happen. What's the name?**

_Celtic Kaleidoscope. About a 30-45 minute drive from your location if my Google map is correct._

**What a horrendous name choice for a club. Are you sure?**

_Oh yes. It looks very…how do you Brits call it? Posh?_

**Yes. That is acceptable terminology.**

_It looks like just the place to really show it off._

**Very good then. I'll be in….**

_WAIT!_

…**touch. **

**What?**

_I was also going to tell you that if you're one of those who wears a typical type of dress, then you should change it up for this occasion._

**What do you mean? **

_I mean that if you usually dress up, then dress down. And if you normally dress down, then dress up. That'll really let him know you're aware of changes needing to be made and aren't afraid of trying new things_.

**Um. Alright. Are you sure it won't seem a bit…strange?**

_Not strange. Noticeable. That way he'll know you're making an effort._

**Very well. I shall suffer through it I imagine. **

**Ta!**

He snapped the laptop shut. Celtic Kaleidoscope? What rubbish! He pulled up the website. Even its slogan on the advertisement was inane. 'Where you can be yourself.' He snorted, _When is anyone NOT themselves?_ Stoically, he Googled the address, noted its location, and then whipped his phone from its hidey-hole in his pocket and began texting. The afternoon was still young. He had time to utilize Mycroft's influence.

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Mycroft looked up from his computer screen as his phone began to buzz with a message. He reached over and pulled it up for viewing. Sherlock. He closed his eyes when he saw the name of the sender. What now? He refocused and clicked the screen to open it up.

**Need access and/or passes for John and myself to a horrible sounding place called Celtic Kaleidoscope. Before tonight would be sufficient. -SH**

Mycroft stared at the phone in disbelief. _The Celtic… Sherlock?_ Surely he didn't know that it was… Or did he? His mind raced around all of the known facts about his little brother. All of the social ineptitudes constantly on display to the world. Quickly, he reached the conclusion that, no, Sherlock did _not_ _know_. A slow, and somewhat sinister, smile began to form on Mycroft's face. "Oh this is too good to be true…" he mumbled to himself as he replied.

**Certainly little brother. I'll have them sent over in an hour or so. -MH**

No reply. _Of course_. He sat back in his chair and stared at the screen where he had been planning the election of the next Prime Minister. _Mundane_. At least, it was compared to the events that would take place later that evening. Imagine. Sherlock. In a gay bar! With his eyes closed again, he pictured the hilarity of the situation. And when he opened them again, he flicked out his wrists, set fingers to keys, and accessed the CCTV circuits, and other video feeds, that the club had in its proximity or within itself. Oh no, he wouldn't miss this for the world…

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Sherlock was surprised at how easily he had gotten John to agree to going. Especially on such short notice. The pretense of researching human behavior in social situations hadn't even gotten a question from the doctor, so used to Sherlock's oddities. His plain Rolling Stones t-shirt and denim jeans had gotten an eyebrow raise, though. But still, John said nothing. And for this, the detective was grateful. Because it wouldn't do for the subject of his scrutiny to realize that he was the test subject, not the crowd in the club as he had been led to believe. And thus, the ruse of an experiment. So he had had to dress the part. Right?

They didn't even need to stand in line. The passes Mycroft had either purchased, forged, or stolen got them VIP access into a special entrance at the rear of the building away from the press of the crowd. They even had a small section with a semi-circular sofa and table all to themselves. And since they entered through a back way and avoided the line, they also missed the most obvious and blatant of homosexual signs and references plastered about the front of the building. True as it could be, and to Mycroft's endless mirth as he watched through multiple angles, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson entered a gay nightclub together.

"This place sure is, um, upscale, Sherlock. Not too sure if I don't feel out of place, you know. Like I shouldn't be here." He had to practically yell over the music. Though they were a goodly distance from the DJ's stage and sitting in their roped off section, the noise level was still an impediment to conversation.

"Nonsense, John. Mycroft made sure we had the highest level of access to this club. If you're here, then you belong."

John studied the profile of his friend as the other man gazed out over the mass of human flesh that churned on the rather obstacle-course-like dance floor. Then he turned his attention to the rest of the building. It was enormous, and darkened, not too badly, but enough so that a light show of strobes and whatnot were very effective in disorienting the dancers. Here and there, in the corners, fog machines would let loose with a bit of mist, which further complicated matters. He observed there were multiple levels to the floor and made a mental note of it in case he drank a tad much later and decided to cross through. _Wouldn't do to break an ankle over an uneven club floor_, he thought to himself.

And thinking about the floor made him realize that he may as well grab a drink and get out there. There seemed to be plenty of women about. They all seemed to be having a good time with their female friends, too. There were quite a few who clustered near enough to each other that you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. _Yeah, if they're gonna stay in groups or pairs like that, then I'm really gonna need some help to get started_. He stood up from their private couch to head over to one of the several bars that lined the walls, looking at Sherlock as he did.

"You want anything?"

"No."

"So are you just going to, well, sit here then?"

"Yes," the eyes hadn't left the crowd yet.

John huffed to himself, thinking that while Sherlock's odd form of friendship was a unique treasure, he also missed the company of his army mates who would hunt the floors with him for dance partners. But, Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he ever did things like that. In fact, the very idea set him to laughing as he got his drink and walked about the club, seeking his prey.

As for the detective, he had retreated within himself, not quite to his mind palace, but far enough that the noise no longer bothered him. _Was this what Cyndy meant? Bring him out and let him cavort about in this stinking hole?_ He didn't see how this had anything to do with anything, but _she_ was the expert. And, the detective did recognize that normal people in normal friendships did accompany one another on outings such as this. So maybe that was it. This was allowing John some feelings of normalcy. Very well. He would suffer through it. For John.

It was almost 45 minutes before John made his way back over to Sherlock's side, the detective appearing not to have moved an inch since he had left him there. All in all, John was just a bit past drunk at this point, and he poked Sherlock in the shoulder forcefully enough that the other man almost fell over. Silver eyes flashed up to John's as the doctor stood over him. _He's drunk_, he thought to himself, _Or well on his way_. His eyes narrowed. _And something else…is he mad? _John's arm swung out to indicate the crowd behind him.

"So what, exactly, is wrong with me, hmmm? Am I not tall enough? Not well-dressed enough? Is it my cologne, or my shoes, or my accent? Hmmmm?"

"It could be all of those, John, but I don't know what particular failing you are trying to refer to."

John's face was one of angry disbelief as he plopped down beside the detective and glared at the floor. "I just don't get it. I've asked at least, what, eleven women to dance? And not a single one would. Ha! And what about you? Are you even going to dance? _Can_ you? Nevermind. They all just gave me this funny look, like, you know, I'm not in their 'league' or something." His face snapped over to gaze at Sherlock. "What's my problem? Deduce me, or _something_," he commanded, waving his hands quite comically in the air before himself.

_Ah, John is frustrated at the female attendants of this place, this 'club.' Hmmm, how to rectify that…._ He continued staring into space, only now he was looking in John's general direction, which gave the other man the idea that the detective was still listening.

"I just don't get it. I asked them, and _very_ nicely, I might add. And _every_ one of them just blew me off." The doctor looked back to the floor again, chuckling. "Shit, I had three _men_ ask me to dance. _Men_! Is that the kind of vibe I give off? Because I mean, it's all fine, and I'm glad that this place is open to all kinds and whatnot, but geez. Eleven!" He reached out and pushed the younger man again, who rocked a bit and came back to reality, leaping into a standing position at once.

"Come John. Follow me." And without further ado, Sherlock glided out towards the main floor purposefully, as if he was walking into a crime scene, his natural habitat. John's somewhat slowed brain followed his progress for a few seconds before he realized what the other man had said, and he heaved himself out of the couch and after him.

Sherlock thought silently to himself. _How to attract partners for John? Drag him around to every female here? Too time consuming. Hang a sign on his neck? He'd never go for something so easy. Act as an intermediary and hunt one out for him myself? Gah_, he shivered, _I could never pull it off without scaring them away. 'Oh, hi, would you cavort about and then later have sex with my friend'? Rubbish ideas._ And then his gaze alighted upon a few choice dancers, and he noted how they paired up, dancing beside or in front of each other. As they did this, others seem to seep out of the crowd and approach them, and then they each seemed to be drawn out to pass around to many and various partners as the song went on. _Drawing them out with their display of physical prowess on the floor…holds promise. But then, who will dance with John to start him off? __**I**__ certainly can't dance to this horrendous drivel._

He reached the space of the floor reserved for those with the special passes, still clustered and thronging, but not quite as badly. He looked around for a possible partner for his friend, his hopes slowly dying as he analyzed each dancer's motives, level of sobriety, and attractiveness. Damn. His eyes narrowed, taking in the basic pattern of several of the more talented bodies before him. His mind drew lines, calculated, and extrapolated on the rhythm of the movements and strategic placing of appendages. He focused then on the more masculine appearing dancers, whether or not they actually _be_ male or female in reality. His mind recorded the patterns they displayed, merged them with the already evaluated and integrated gyrations, and…he began to move. For that was all it was in his mind. Moving. Just at different tempos. It could almost be likened to playing an instrument, in which the instrument was instead the body.

It took Sherlock Holmes mere hours to learn a foreign language when he had a headache and a stomach virus. It took a bare twenty seconds to develop his own style of dance. And John, who had followed from so far behind, almost walked right past his friend, so different was his appearance. He stopped, and stared, and thought, _What the bloody hell just happened? He was there, in front, walking. And now he's here, in front…dancing! Sherlock Bloody Bleeding Holmes is dancing before me! _He looked down for a second before concluding, _I must be really drunk._

The detective stopped for a moment, breathing only slightly heavier than normal, and he motioned with a hand for John to join him. John returned the gesture with a resounding stare of disbelief. Then he rationalized it, _What the hell? Can't turn out to be any worse of a night. Been turned down by several women, might as well have a dance with my best mate and get all this tension out. _And so he sidled up slightly perpendicular to the detective who, _Where the hell did he ever learn to dance like that,_ looked as relaxed as when playing his violin. So confident, with precise and flowing motions of legs and arms. It was almost intimidating to dance beside him. _Ah, whatever_, John's drunken mind fed him, _I've been in a fuckin' war, this is nothing. _And he danced.

They stayed beside each other for the most part, occasionally facing, and John saw Sherlock's lip quirk up every now and then, though his eyes remained mostly closed it seemed. _He's enjoying this, I bet. Bloody berk would never let on to that, though, would he? _People tried to approach a few times, but they were either intimidated by Sherlock's newfound ability, outright rebuffed by the man himself, or steered away when John refused to allow them in to his circle of influence. Mostly men; a couple were actually female, though, but dreadfully not the doctor's type. And, despite the depressing beginning of the night, and the fact that he still had not had even one single female partner, he was actually having fun just dancing here with Sherlock.

And as he was thinking this, the music changed once again. This time to a _somewhat_ slower paced, sinuous, grinding rock song. John thought he recognized it as being "Sail" by Awolnation, but his head was still a bit too buzzed to register it fully. And then he turned around to see if his mate wanted a break. He felt like _he_ could definitely use one, anyway. And. He. Stopped…. Because before him, Sherlock Holmes, a man that John Watson had heretofore imagined could never lower himself to such things as modern dancing, was moving in a way that could make even a straight man blush. Which John did; as he stared. Though he needn't feel embarrassed, because nearly every pair of eyes within a twenty foot radius was focused on the same region of the dance floor. _Can you actually have sex with the air?_ he wondered_. Because I am seeing some pretty incontrovertible evidence for its argument, right now_.

And then, Sherlock's eyes flicked open and met John's, and his entire demeanor returned back to what passed as normal for him. He was sweating lightly, dark curls plastered in places to his forehead, as he cocked his head in silent question. John realized then that he was still kind of staring, and so he averted his gaze as though watching someone pass behind Sherlock. The detective, figuring speech perhaps was a better approach with John while he was partially inebriated, stepped over to his friend, close. Very close.

John acted as though nothing perturbed him when the other man invaded his personal space. _Not like he knows what that is anyway_. Then Sherlock's hands reached up and gripped his arms, just below the shoulders, causing John's attention to instantly refocus on the source of contact. The younger man was still looking at him quizzically and seemed to reach a decision of some sort as he leaned in so as to be heard over the music. Hot breath puffed across the doctor's earlobe as lips that were close behind, _Too Close_, asked a question.

"You stopped. Why?"

It took him a moment to redirect his thoughts, but eventually John managed to beg off with, "I think I'm going to head out for some air." His face was still hot from the dancing…and other things that made him uncomfortable. "It's a bit warm for me."

The detective nodded and stepped back, waving toward a door on the side. John looked at him in silent inquiry, _Are you coming?_

_Not quite yet. Going to move about and do some observing for a moment_.

_Oh, alright, then, I'll just be_… "Dammit! I'm doing it again!" he yelled, voice lost in the surrounding noise. But his expression and gestures came through loud and clear to Sherlock, who merely turned his head a bit and twitched his mouth, the sly look of a gratified trainer. An exasperated army doctor then made his way through the uneven flooring and across the grand expanse to the door that promised a little escape: cooler air, less noise, and some time away from Sherlock to process (and discard) those uncomfortable feelings. He shook his head at that last thought. _Now I'm really beginning to turn into him. Process and discard feelings? Ha!_

He passed through the door, and the blessed peace of night enveloped him. It wasn't quite a back alley so much as a private expanse of concrete that the owner of the club hadn't bothered with yet. But right now, it was a sanctuary. And he leaned up against the wall in relief.

The door banged open suddenly as three men came through. All of roughly the same height, fashionably dressed, and with an air of violence. The second one through spotted John against the wall, pointing him out to the others. They began to move slowly towards him. _Uh oh…_ passed through John's mind. He didn't have any weapons, and he was half-drunk. Even with his training, he didn't like those odds, especially if one of them might be carrying a weapon. A flash at the side of the third man, and John spotted the telescopic night stick. _Great_.

They formed a semi-circle around him, each looking to the others for nerve. No one made any threatening moves, but the air was filled with tension. John was actually about to speak up when the door banged open again, and out strolled Sherlock. The attention of the pack shifted as the three sized up the new threat, and then two turned back to John while the last hollered at the detective, "Get outta here! None of your affair, mate! Just making sure we keep the club swept clean of _his_ kind," the man gestured with obvious distaste toward the doctor.

"To what kind do you refer?" Sherlock answered with a question as he turned to face them head on.

"The kind that comes here to gay clubs just to start trouble. This one was too obvious. No way _he_ was gay from the moment I saw 'im."

John's mind spun. _Gay club? We went to a gay club?_ Which made sense now that he reviewed the occurrences of the night. The poshness of the club, the women who wouldn't dance with him, and even the name alluded to it, with its many colored object of amusement, the kaleidoscope. Oh, _I'm an idiot. And Sherlock, too. There's absolutely no way he would even be aware of it. Or care for that matter_. And at that moment, the detective spoke again, laughing a bit as he did.

"Not gay? Him?" He strolled up to the side of the semi-circle of three, stopping right before them and fixing them with a glacial stare. His body was relaxed, as if to say he found them to be no threat. And his voice lowered, threateningly so, as he spoke only two words. "He's mine," floated out through the gathering; and the tone used was one of absolute surety, actually causing the one nearest him to step back a bit and speak.

"Hey. Hey man. Sorry, sorry okay? We just saw this bloke going up to women a few times earlier and thought…"

"Yes, you thought. That was your first mistake," snapped Sherlock as he stepped between the man and John. "Now, if you don't mind, we'd like to get back."

At first, the men seemed ready to comply, but then one, the first one that had been out of the door, gained a bit of courage and challenged the situation.

"No way. I don't believe it. This guy is straight."

"He's not."

"Prove it." And the man crossed his arms, thinking himself abundantly clever. John had been watching the proceedings with a growing sense of embarrassment, anxiety, and dread. Though dread was gaining more ground from the way this guy was talking to them. Sherlock on the other hand, rolled his eyes like nothing more than an annoyed rich frat boy who was told he had to hug his grandmother. He gave one last searing glower at all three of the men, turned, and pulled John against him in a forceful, and an outsider might say passionate, kiss that sent a jolt of fear, surprise, and acceptance through John's being. It lasted only ten seconds, but John felt as though both his mouth and his heart had been raped and pillaged. Turned inside out. Switched places. Imploded.

Meanwhile, while John's brain attempted a rebooting sequence, the men began to file away slowly, one even apologizing as he made his escape back into the din of the club's DJ and lights. And the detective turned back to John, picking and pulling at the doctor's shirt as if to assure that it was on correctly. John just continued to stare dumbly ahead as Sherlock began speaking.

"Really, John, you should have waited for me before actually going out. But at least the situation was kept contained by quick thinking and acting on both our parts, right?" He paused, " John?" As John looked finally at the younger man, he came partially back to his senses.

"Um, yeah. That was, pretty…quick…something…"

"Yes. And your physiological response was much more convincing than my false kiss could ever be. There's no way they could've refuted that! The perfect argument via literal body language! Excellent thinking!"

"False ki…physio…what?"

"Come, John, don't make me be crude," the dark haired man said with a subtle downward flick of his eyes.

John's brain finally caught on to what Sherlock was saying…and he almost passed out. Right there. On the concrete. And died. As he realized _what_ physiological response was being spoken of. He groaned aloud.

"Don't be embarrassed, John. It was brilliant! Where did you learn how to do that?"

"I, um…special forces. Training, for unusual, um, circumstances…um…" he petered off into conversational death.

"Well, I think they must have thought of everything to prepare you for, then. Wonderful!" He spun and paced as he talked, John watching somewhat confusedly. "Now," he said as he faced the doctor once more, "we've been out together for the night, so what should we do now?" His head cocked, mouth moving through too many thoughts for anyone to process. "I know! Let's go to the morgue! There's supposed to be a nice married couple in from an MVA only a day or so ago. We could try to figure the particulars of their accident and correlate with Molly; supposedly, there is an insurance fraud attempt with…." John stopped registering what was being said as he followed listlessly after his friend. His head hurt, his mind hurt, and…_what the bloody hell just happened tonight?!_


	6. Chapter 6

Day 5 (still), then Day 6…

John followed behind Sherlock as if in a daze, his body on autopilot as he dumbly shuffled through the night's events. No matter how long and hard he thought on it, though, the same question reared up, _What the bloody hell just happened?!_ He went from having a mate's night out to snogging his flatmate in front of a group of men…in a gay club! And he hadn't just snogged on _any_ man, oh no…it was his best friend! And while the ever-logical Holmes had clearly stated that it was meant as a ruse to free them from the unwanted aggressive physical confrontation with those same men, John felt something indefinable shift within himself. It was slow-moving, hidden; with no name and no surety that it was real in the first place. _Am I just too drunk?_ _Am I having an identity crisis? I feel so, so…odd. What's wrong with me?_

He looked up at the silhouetted form of the detective as they slowed to a stop, outlined against the streetlights as he searched for a cab to hail. Clearly, the other man's mind wasn't even considering the recent events, and he had already moved past them. The potential of scrutinizing some fresh bodies in a morgue held sway over that enigmatic mind now, not some false act of impropriety. So why couldn't John himself work past it? He sighed, partway in frustration of the night's confusing events, and partway in awe at how quickly Sherlock always managed to attract a cab.

As they climbed inside, the detective's phone went off. A text. John gave the cabbie the destination as Sherlock's attention deviated to the chiming device, flicking out his phone and firing off a reply to his texter. When done, he set the phone on the seat between them and gazed out the window into the night air. John caught the clock on the dash and read 11:57. He groaned inwardly, hoping that the morgue didn't have too many interesting things for him tonight. He was on call tomorrow for the clinic, so if they became bogged down with patients, he might be called upon to come in. Perfect. The deep baritone of the man beside him brought him out of his contemplations.

"Lestrade has something for me, John. John? Are you feeling okay?

"Mm? Oh, yeah. Yeah. Fine. Just, thinking is all."

"Lestrade is at the morgue. Has something for me."

"Oh, well. Excellent, since that's where we were going to hang out after clubbing anyway," John attempted a joke.

Sherlock's quicksilver eyes stared in incomprehension as John's attempts at humor once again failed to reach past that analytical barrier. "Yes, rather providential," was spoken after a moment's consideration of the doctor's previous statement's implications. And then those eyes flowed back over to the side streets and darkness beyond the barrier of glass.

John remained quiet the rest of the way there, lost in thoughts that lead nowhere. At least, nowhere he was ready to pursue. Every time a particular pathway sprung up before him, he stubbornly kept to the trail he was on already and admitted no new evidence into his chosen route. He had gotten to exactly nowhere at least four times when they arrived back in their part of the city, pulling up to the hospital shortly thereafter.

Sherlock was out of the cab and through the doors of Bart's before John was finished paying the driver. He could almost see a comical vision of Sherlock as a puppy begging for the treat that Greg dangled. Of course, were Sherlock a dog, he would probably bite down half of Greg's arm first before then urinating on his leg. He shook his head of the outrageous silliness circling him just as he finally came to where Lestrade was watching Sherlock circle and hover over the body of a young woman. The detective looked up from his study as the doctor approached.

"John, finally."

"I've only just been paying the cabbie and came straight up. What do you mean finally?"

"We have a case. What did you think I meant?"

"I just thought…nevermind."

"Good. Stop thinking and start looking. Observe, if you would; but if it's as I already suspect, there won't be any physical traces of the cause of death visible to the eye alone."

Lestrade looked surprised, as usual, "You already know?"

"I have a hunch. One that I must research to be sure of accessibility. But yes. John?"

Ever amazed by his friend's brilliantly fast conclusions, yet annoyed at his unwillingness to share his breakthroughs immediately, he complied as he moved over to the young woman's body. "Right then. Who am I looking at?"

Lestrade answered before Sherlock could call the information irrelevant. "Nancy Petrosi, 27. Part-time college student. No medical issues. No allergies. No enemies. Known ones, anyway. Died tonight at her job about 2 hours ago. Found in a dressing room on the floor. No signs of attack or struggle. No recordings of anyone else entering the room with her during the time she went in to the time she was discovered."

John felt the usual searing heat of Sherlock's gaze in his back as he worked over the body, and Greg's voice droned into background noise after those first few sentences. He didn't know why Sherlock valued his medical opinion so highly. He seemed perfectly able of solving most cases with no help at all. He hoped Sherlock never realized that, though, because he enjoyed this. All of it. Listening to the facts and clues as they came together to form a picture that led to a discovery and conviction. It was almost like practicing medicine in a way. With patients, you put together all of the verbally reported clues, the physical findings, the evidence of lab and diagnostic studies, and it painted you picture that cemented a diagnosis. He looked up at the other two men who waited on his judgment.

"You're right. No outward signs of trauma or attack. No signs of some undiscovered disease, not outwardly anyway. And no sign of drug usage."

"Not in the way that you mean, anyway," Sherlock said cryptically, his hand held fisted over his mouth as he thought; and he spun to Lestrade."You have the surveillance videos?" And Greg reached into his pocket to pull out a USB before speaking.

"We've got her last living moments clocked at about 2033 as she enters that dressing room. Until then, most of the time she's available on two different camera angles."

John spoke up, "Camera angles? What was she doing?"

"Working, John," Sherlock replied.

"At what?" And he saw the mental eye roll frolicking across the younger man's features.

"Take a look at her feet. Can you not tell?" And John stared dumbly. Greg, who already knew, but was still interested in hearing how Sherlock had figured it out, just looked on.

Sherlock moved down to the feet of the corpse. "Young female, well-proportioned, fake breasts, with feet that show patterned pressure marks up to the knee, most likely from the kind of footwear she had on at the time of death. The soles of her feet show callus patterns consistent with those who are accustomed to wearing stiletto heels, and often. No mark of a wedding band ever having been present." He paused for what John figured was dramatic effect. "So, unwed college girl with an altered body that was nice enough even prior to the additions made to it who wears stilettos on a regular basis, and is recorded on constant surveillance at her job. What profession do _you_ think she's in?"

"She's a stripper? Oh." John felt befuddled and amazed and somewhat annoyed, as usual, at Sherlock's ability to call out the not so obvious facts about people. The detective merely threw him a half grin, palmed the USB from Lestrade who gaped (only a little), and swept out of the doors. John gave the older detective one more look before heading after him. Lestrade stopped him briefly with a shout, though.

"John! Hey, what's Sherlock's clothes all about then?"

John remembered then that the younger man had actually dressed down for the night and was present in jeans and Rolling Stone t-shirt. How to explain when he didn't quite get what was going on himself. He laughed at the confusion on Greg's face, shrugging with it and saying, "It's Sherlock." Which seemed to be explanation enough for the other man as he simply grunted in acknowledgment as John resumed his hurried pursuit. Greg stared on after the doctor, rolling the evidence around in his head as he had been doing for months now. Those two…. He chuckled suddenly then, thinking to himself that _those two_ were about the biggest pair of idiots in the known world. And he couldn't wait until they figured it out, too.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Back at Baker Street, John hopped straight in the shower when they got back, attempting to rid himself of the stink of the club_. A gay club!_ he thought. Though he had never had any problem with those who went the other way, he had never thought to find himself in one of their venues. He'd have to talk with Sherlock about that later, in fact…no, wait a minute. Sherlock wouldn't have known or cared. But then, who would have…? _Gah! Mycroft!_ He scrubbed his hair a bit harder as he made the connection. Didn't he say that Mycroft was the one to give him those VIP passes? Really, the man was insufferable. Playing a trick like that on Sherlock was like picking on a small child who doesn't speak yet. It was just plain mean. _The man just doesn't get social niceties or, well, anything of that nature. He's completely daft._ Sometimes endearingly so. Other times…enough so as to make a person want to beat him senseless with a rubber cane. Or something metal. And studded. Anywho…

John stepped from the shower with iron resolve to "speak" with Mycroft at their next encounter. He brushed his teeth ferociously as he contemplated the bullying that the elder Holmes was due. Wrapping the towel around himself, he then trotted upstairs to grab his sleep pants and housecoat, returning to the living area to find Sherlock zoned in to the screen of his laptop, switching back and forth between different camera angles of the club, all focused on one particular dancer. The detective motioned for him to come closer without looking up.

"Here is where she is last seen outside of the dressing room. Watch." And John surveyed from two cameras as the girl, very talented indeed, performed her routine. There were two other women on stage at other poles, as well. He had walked up to the end of one set, a slow, almost ballet-like performance with a bit of modern dance thrown in. Pretty sure he recognized it as a song by Evanescence called 'Together Again.' It was actually quite mesmerizing to watch. If you ignored the gaudy outfit. He only caught the last 45 or so seconds of it, but he had to admit it was quite a good ending at the least. Then another song broke in, a harsher, yet more fitting tune for this venue, crashing against the subtle, melancholy melody of the previous. First she began with the stereotypical pole dance, although it was a decent enough choreography. And the music chosen, well, it was certainly grungy and rock enough to get most any man going. '_Closer_,' he thought to himself, _I think that's the name of it anyway. By Nine Inch Nails or some sort. Been a while since I've listened to that stuff. _

She started out at the pole, but then moved with swift purpose to a member of the audience. No one seemed to pay this any mind, so it must be a common occurrence for the girls to do things like this. Sherlock clicked on another viewpoint and the angles shift, one view from behind and to the man's left, the other slightly to the man's right and facing him. The woman, Nancy, dropped to the floor and sort of crawled the last few feet to him, rising up to his knee level when she reached him. John stopped watching her for a moment and scanned the people around them. Nothing suspicious that he could discern. And when his eyes sought the pair again, Nancy was giving the lap dance of the century. Even with these poor quality cameras and bad angles, John could feel his face heating up at the intimacy such moves suggested.

The subject of her attentions seemed almost shocked and scared, unable to figure out where to put his hands. So he ended up just holding on to the bottom of his chair. Sweat poured off of his face and darkened his shirt. _Geez, must have never been to one of those places before_, thought John as he watched the man's hand shake while they gripped his seat. And when she finished, she merely gave a fond pat on the cheek and trotted off to her dressing room while he sat there shooting glances around, stood up suddenly, and ambled off. Sherlock switched cameras to show her entering the room, and then switched again, rewound, and they watched the sweaty man leave the club within five minutes of the end of the dance.

"Alright. I've got nothing. I saw no one suspicious, other than her last customer who appeared very uncomfortable with the whole lap dance thing. But he left right after. And she never gave any impression of being distressed or anything untoward." He finished and watched Sherlock's face, waiting for the inevitable drill down of how he never saw anything and couldn't he just pay attention and blah blah blah. But, it never came. Instead…

"You're right."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, you're right. There is nothing here on film to indicate this was anything other than a usual night's work for her."

"Oh. Well, then. What next? Go to the club itself?"

The detective sat back in his chair, eyes still attuned to the screen. "Perhaps. Perhaps not." Everything I need visually is here. And I believe I've worked out the murder weapon. However, I need to complete some research of my own before I'm sure. I just can't quite figure how it…well, no matter. An experiment or so should provide the data I require."

John yawned down at him, "Well, I'm for bed, then. On call tomorrow," he said as he glanced at the clock, blinked hard, then corrected himself with a groaned, "Today, that is." And he pivoted away, heading to the kitchen for some water before finally trudging back upstairs to bed. Meanwhile, the detective watched the various angles of recorded footage again, cataloguing the precise movements the woman made, down to the last detail. Every flick of the wrist, set of the foot, and fluttering of the lashes was recorded, categorized, and sorted. He looked at the time on the corner of the screen, eyes narrowed. _I need information. Experience_. _Data_. With that thought, he typed in a Google search and found what he was looking for within a few minutes of sorting through useless results. _And nearby, too_, he thought as he caught the address of the business he had sought online. His eyes narrowed, and his lips turned into a half smile, half sneer. _Perfect_.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John came home, heavy footed and thoughts bleak, after 10 hours in the clinic. On call. What a joke. He'd gotten the ring at 0730 that morning that someone else was going to be out sick, and there was already a line forming before they'd opened the clinic doors. Drudgery after drudgery. Snot nose after snot nose. He battled through the weariness and boredom of the mundane. Trying to focus on why he loved this whole being a physician thing again. He was too tired to remember, though. He sighed heavily as he pushed open the door to the flat.

As he slung his coat over the bottom rail of the stairs, he looked up as Mrs. Hudson came quickly down towards him. So flustered was she that she didn't even see John until she almost ran him down. She gasped at the near collision, and then nervously tittered a hello before dodging around him saying, "Oh, you know. Baking. Be up…um, later, dearie. Ta!" And she snapped her door closed, leaving John to stare in bewilderment at the strange behavior. Then his mind tracked her path back to his flat…and Sherlock. _Oh no_. The detective's experiments had never before sent her scampering away. Not even various body parts separated from their respective owners. So what did this time? His stomach sank. There was, literally, no telling with Sherlock Holmes, a man of multiple methods of freakery.

John set his shoulders and pivoted, army style, ready to face his flatmate's most recent concoction of the obtuse. The stairs seemed to drift beneath him as he passed over them. What would it be this time? Step. Another body? Step. More than one?! Step. _Pieces_ of one…or many? Step. Perhaps a host of ferrets had moved in? Step. Or Sherlock had taken up crochet? Step. Maybe the wall no longer stood? Step. The windows replaced by giant pieces of bug tape? Step. Dead pigeons everywhere…..again? Step. All of John's socks used to create an escape rope out the window? Step. All of the clocks running backwards? Step. Blood on all the walls? Step. Stop. _No wait, that's already happened_. Resume. Step. _Perhaps he's induced himself into a coma?_ Step. Then his heart sank. What would scare Mrs. Hudson away? Step. A woman who had been in the center of trouble with them all along? A woman who could just wrinkle her nose in disgust at the body parts occupying the fridge? What would scare _her_? Step. Stop. _Drugs_. He jumped the remaining few stairs and ran the rest of the way, bursting into the flat, banging the door wide and loud, breath rasping out in his fear.

Heart pounding, his eyes scanned the room…and found….not what he had imagined…ever… Much like Sherlock, his mind slowed everything down so as to take it all in at once. The room was darkened, some sort of reddish, ambient glow was present that softened the lines of everything in the flat. Molly was sitting beside Greg, both in folding chairs. One was empty beside them. There was enough room between the chairs for a person to walk through, though not much. She had a blush on her face the likes of which he had never seen before. Her eyes found his, and she choked, halfway between sob, speech, embarrassment, and laughter. Her hands were clenched tightly in the hem of her shirt, twisting it to and fro. Greg sat with a look of defeat, like one who has given in to watching a movie that their kids wanted to see. He was leaned slightly forward and to the side, elbow resting on his knee and hand up to his face, fingers splayed out over his forehead, and thumb touching on his cheek. Almost as if he were trying to avoid looking forward. The chairs were facing the kitchen, which was blocked from John's view for the moment. He caught Greg's eye as the other man flicked his eyes toward another strange thing that had decided to occupy space in the flat, and mouthed/whispered the word 'research' to John as the doctor's eyes found what was being pointed out. A pole. From ceiling to floor. Bolted down… …O….k…. He took a few more steps into the room, and froze as he heard the first few notes breathe into the air of the flat. _I recognize that…it's….it's…_

And then he died. Or he thought he did, as the aching choral tones that overlaid the piano turned into the voice that bespoke of two lovers, one always seeking the other, dreaming of unity, never finding it. The music floated out through the sound system, creating blanket of beautiful notes. And then, there was Sherlock: workboots with tight jeans covering their tops, Clockwork Orange t-shirt clinging to his torso, almost too small for his lithe frame. Wild curls as disheveled as if he had actually just fallen out of bed from a lover's arms. He strode slowly, sinuously into the room. John walked over, and sat/fell into the chair beside Greg, almost zombie-like in his stilted motions. All eyes widened as Sherlock began to move through the exact same routine as the woman whose murder they were investigating, the mixture of classic interpretive and modern dance.

_Oh, so he's researching how someone could have gotten to her? Well, then, that's…that's… _he watched as Sherlock snaked his way to the end, walking around Molly, running his hand from her clavicle and around to the back of her neck as he circled her chair. Suddenly dropping down behind her, he traced his hands up and down the length of the sides of her arms, bringing a shiver forth from the already flustered woman. His head found a perch at the side of her neck, and he nuzzled her face to the side as he breathed in dramatically, eyes closed as if in orgasm at her scent. One hand stayed lightly clasped on her bicep as the other trailed lightly up to her throat, and then chin. He tilted her face back toward him, eyes opening lazily as he slid them closed again and pulled her in to kiss.

Or he would have, but she squealed and tittered, standing abruptly, sputtering. She finally decided that no speech at all was the better option and fled, almost knocking the chair over in her haste as Sherlock stood from behind her. Greg and John looked on as if paralyzed, unable to take their eyes off of the detective, so different in demeanor was he. It was almost as if he were a different person. _But this is all an act_, John said to himself with a huge gulp, _for the Work_. And Gregory Lestrade was thinking along those same lines, too, trying to grasp what was left of his manly dignity, when Sherlock's leonine attention snapped to _his_ face. And a grin that was surely born in hell flitted across the detective's features as he drew the t-shirt over his head to reveal a tight cotton tank underneath.

Greg swallowed. Hard. As Sherlock flowed over to him, stepping behind him first and tracing a finger along the nape of his neck as he came to stand before him. Smoothly, the younger man straddled the DI's legs, settling down on his lap, pinning him with a burning fierce stare in those blue-lightning eyes. Greg's mouth moved as if to speak, and Sherlock's hands flew up, one going to the center of the DI's chest, holding him back, the other going over his mouth, effectively silencing him. Once sure that the silence would remain, Sherlock moved his hands up to hold each side of the older man's face, while the DI remained in pure shock of what was happening, right now, on his very lap. The wild, dark haired dream before him tilted its head with a shadowy little grin. One hand left the side of Greg's face and feathered over his ear lobe. Breath hitched in his throat at the sensitive area. And his eyes almost closed, so hypnotized was he by this creature, as that hand slid behind his head and pulled forward. And then that dark angel's grin found the DI's lips.

The moment stilled as Greg and John both shared the shock of the moment. Lips moving along his own, belonging to this beautiful enigma before him, had him almost caught up enough to not react as his body had been conditioned to over the years: with fear. But then, it broke through, and he pushed back from Sherlock's hands and mouth, almost falling out of the chair. He stood, and as he did, it pulled Sherlock up with him. He took a step back from this man he had thought he knew, took one look at John, and fled almost as quickly as Molly had. He even left his cell phone on the table in his haste. Sherlock watched after him as the last strains of the music vanished.

John was about to speak up, but Sherlock's eyes stopped him, and he twitched his head down in the negative, as if to say not to break the suspension of disbelief in the atmosphere. The doctor complied as the detective walked from the room to the kitchen from whence he had originally emerged. There was the sound of shuffling. Fabric shifting. A sound system being readjusted. And then, minutes later, a new sound came through. Harsher than the last, the new almost rock/techno beat was animalistic in nature. It pulled from the depths of one's most primal urges. And John put a name to this one as well. Apparently, Sherlock was recreating the last two acts of the woman's life. The introduction to 'Closer' by Nine Inch Nails was cranked so high as to shake the floor boards with its intensity. And out came Sherlock. Again.

_He must've…changed…clothes…_John's brainwaves disappeared as the dark angel came into the soft red glow once more. Bluejean fabric had been replaced by tight, thin leather bootcut pants that showed every….curve….of every…bit….ending in pale bare feet. The white tank had been exchanged for a thin leather vest, open at the front and ending a few inches before the top of the pants, revealing a good strip of muscled abdomen. John blinked. And blinked again, as Sherlock grabbed the pole and began to undulate along its length, alternately dropping low and then riding up it again as the words to the song began. He spread his legs and twined one backwards around the pole pulling his back flush against it, reaching up above his head to grasp along its length. He arched his back as if at the cusp of pleasure as the singer's words poured forth. And just when John thought he could turn it all into some sort of joke in his head in order to make himself more comfortable…Sherlock's eyes fastened him to the spot as the detective's head snapped down to face him and those cupid's bow lips mouthed the words with the singer, _I wanna fuck you like an animal_. A jolt of something went through John. And he stared and stared and stared. It held him in its grip, sure as gravity held him to the earth. Sherlock pushed away from the pole at that point, much as the woman had done in her performance. He strode forward powerfully, purposefully. And then John remembered what the woman had done to her intended target in the audience, and his heart dropped from its perch. _Surely not_, he thought. _Surely he'll just mime it all_.

One look in those shining eyes as they came within closer view told him he was wrong. So wrong, in fact, that he began to tremble a little. _What_? And Sherlock rolled his shoulders as he leaned down in John's face. One long look, a quick flick of his brilliant eyes downwards, told John all he needed to know about how far Sherlock was willing to go in the name of the Work. And he couldn't help but shiver from the intensity of the purely sexual gaze being blasted at him. He resolutely kept his hands at his sides, trying to act casual, as if this didn't bother him a bit.

The detective tilted his head like a dog hearing a far off sound. As if he could sense the train of John's thoughts. He bit his lip, looking down at John, and strode around behind him. John jumped as hands snaked up and through his short-cropped hair, massaging, sometimes brushing along the backs of his ears and the nape of his neck. Little pulses of that 'something' kept shooting down down down… And then Sherlock's lips were at his ear, "Hello, John." The loud whisper rumbled through his inner ear and down to the soles of his feet. And just as he figured he needed to get up and leave. Right now. Yes. Now. This very second….lips pressed to the base of his neck and fingers traced their feathered pathway down his arms. The lips then found his shoulder as one hand came up and pulled aside the knitted fabric. A quick flick of the tongue and there was another shock of the 'something.'

He suddenly decided to take control and wrested his head and neck away somewhat, which only seemed in keeping with the detective's plans, as the other man was already standing again and coming to face him. Or so he thought. Because, quicker than he could think, Sherlock's dark curls, poetic eyes, and angel's body were before him, crawling the floor on hands and knees, and pulling up slowly. Ever…so….slowly…up John's legs until he could meet those eyes full on. Long, artistic fingers splayed over each of the doctor's thighs as Sherlock suddenly separated them, pushing them apart and depositing himself between them. They were almost at a reversal of their height difference now, with John a few inches higher than Sherlock, so that he had to tilt his head down to look at the younger man.

Words of protest almost spilled forth at that last move, but Sherlock proceeded with shock and awe, surprising his prey into silence by grasping both of John's wrists and shoving them down and behind his back, restraining him. Sherlock's body still undulated, serpent-like, with the beat and crash of the song's crescendo, as if he was preparing to strike. His eyes, half-lidded; his mouth, parted; his skin, flushed… And that cold, hard, hot, soft, burning yet freezing length of his body was pressing up against John in such a way that even the most abstinent of monks could not possibly remain unaroused. He was mesmerized. Frozen. Heat building within himself that stemmed from a source he had yet to acknowledge. And the body before him was one of pure sex, carnal desire, and wanton fucking. Gripping, pulling, sweating, sliding…. Every breath released by this man holding him prisoner promised something of the baser of man's instincts.

Sherlock's face hovered within inches of John's own as he craned his neck upward, seeking, seeking…. And then the detective released his wrists, body flowing upward liquid smooth between the doctor's legs and then straddling them, sliding over them. Back and forth. Back and forth. There was that face again…those lips…before him… A lazy, wicked, smile lit the corner of the detective's mouth as he grabbed John's collar and pulled his lips against his own, continuing his writhing with the end of the song. Mouth open, teeth parted, tongues clashing, heads turning, seeking purchase. Hands went everywhere and nowhere, and grabbed and twisted and held tight. Electricity shot through John's body and straight to his groin. Someone moaned, maybe himself. Such burning heat and sensuality here within this kiss that was like the fucking of two mouths. And then…and then…

Sherlock stood up abruptly as the music ended, walked over and flicked on the lights. John blinked as harsh reality flooded over him. Shit. _What…did…I…just…do…?_ But Sherlock beat him to the audible range of speech.

"As ever, John, your input is invaluable. Of course, I should have known that no matter how immobile one might appear on camera, there are still minute little motions that can't be tracked adequately with video! I need to draw up a formula, yes. Nicely done. I knew I could count on you, at least, to help with my research. Molly and Lestrade were reluctant at best to begin with, so I naturally ended…" Sherlock kept on talking as he went about things in the kitchen. Who knew what _kinds_ of things? Probably bad. Could be dangerous. But who knew? Certainly not John, who sat. And stared. Into nothing. He remained like that for a good few minutes before raising his hand to his lips slowly and touching them. He looked at the fingers as if they were covered in some unknown substance afterwards, and then he stood and walked woodenly to bed.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Thanks to Revella for her egging me on to further heights of Sherlockian-ness. Wouldn't have been so driven to complete this tonight without her. LOL!

Day 7…

_I'm bleeding again. Why am I bleeding?_ "John, why am I bleeding?" Hurried footsteps met this inquiry and ended with, "Oh, God. Sherlock! What…what did you do this time?" Sherlock opened his mouth, but was interrupted, "Nevermind. Give me your arm." He complied, watching in fascination as John removed a large triangle of glass from his forearm. How had it gotten there anyway? His eyes darted across the counter. _Oh yes_, he thought to himself as he remembered that he had been attempting to discover how much force one could put on a regular drinking glass before it shattered. The other remains of the vessel lay scattered haphazardly on the floor and counter. _Maybe not use my own arm to apply the force necessary next time? _ He was sure John would approve of his new decision and was about to inform the other man of this, when he suddenly became much more interested in the hands that treated his wound. Fascinatingly common though they were, they moved with a deft skill and steady, calm experience. And, behind the cadence of first aid in their foreground…behind it, underlying with a softer counter-melody, was that of...caring? Yes. Deep and profound. So raptly was he observing John that he forgot the pain. He also forgot he was staring. But John noticed…

"Ahem, well, I've got to be off to work soon. Just, _please_ try not to injure yourself further while I'm gone." He turned away from Sherlock as he secured the dressing, washing his hands in the sink. Sherlock had broken off his outward observation, retreating somewhat within himself so as not to appear odd to John. What was it about this man that held his interest so? John finished at the sink and walked over to grab his coat. He picked up his keys, and looked over his shoulder as he headed out the door. "I'll be back about 5:30 tonight, provided we don't have any late appointments. I'll grab some takeaway on my way home." Sherlock made no response, and John didn't wait for one either. As the front door to the flat closed, Sherlock turned toward the laptop. _Need help._ But it was only 7:30 in the morning. Cyndy wouldn't be available for at least another five hours. His gaze drifted back over to their cupboard, and all of the remaining glassware…

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

**Cyndy…**

**Cyndy…**

**Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyn…**

_WHAT?!_

**Ah, there you are.**

_How are you contacting my specific work computer directly?_

**So, I've had a breakthrough. Maybe**.

_Yeah, to my computer_.

**Immaterial. I've had to wait several minutes for those idiots to put me through to you before. This is faster.**

…..

_So. A breakthrough?_

**Yes. We went out, as you suggested. He seemed to have a fairly good time, especially at the end. At least, his display of dancing matched what is generally accepted as someone having a good time.**

_You're a handful to deal with, aren't you?_

**Yes?**

_Anyway, what happened after the dancing? _

**He got cornered by some very violent individuals, I kissed him, and then we went to the morgue to examine a body.**

…_er…_

**I can see why this would appear odd to you. I am a detective, of sorts, and I am frequently called upon by the police to consult on their unsolved cases.**

_Oh. Well, now it doesn't sound __**so**__ bad. I guess. Except that still means that your night ended with work._

**Your meaning?**

_Meaning, it was supposed to be a night for just the two of you._

**Oh, yes. I see. Having the detective inspector there was of no help then?**

_No! It's supposed to be time for you two __**only**__._

**Hmm. I begin to see. Well, that's alright. Last night was almost the two of us alone together.**

_Oh? _

**Yes. I did a portion of a strip tease act in our living room.**

_Oh! Well, that sounds, well, like something special. But wait. Didn't you say __**almost**__ alone?_

**Yes. The detective inspector and a medical examiner were there, too.**

_If you could hear me sigh, then you would know how exasperated this makes me._

**Why? Have I done something wrong?**

_Not exactly. No. But when I said 'alone' I meant __**alone**__. No one else. Anyway, what's the breakthrough you mentioned?_

**I noticed obvious signs of his arousal throughout my performance. Also, this morning, he was helping me…clean up something, and he seemed a bit distracted still by my presence. So much so, that it seemed to affect my level of concentration, too**.

_Ah, now we're getting somewhere. So when is the last date of intimacy?_

**What?**

_Intimacy. Sex. Cuddling._

**Oh. I'm sure I have no idea. I try not to keep track of those kinds of things. It's so predictable and boring anyway. I think he feels that way, too, and is just too nice to ever tell anyone.**

_Aha! I have the problem solved now! I wish I had asked this question a good while ago_.

**Sex is his problem then?**

_Yes. And yours, too, probably, if you want to know._

**I don't.**

_Of course not. But with that attitude, it'll just make it harder to fix this. However, you __**did**__ have the concern enough to seek counseling for his sake, so there must be something to be said about that._

**Yes, I suppose. I simply wish for things to go back to the way they were. Before this oddity came about and altered how things are.**

_Well, you've come to the right place at least. So, here's what you're going to do. He needs something sexually that's new or a bit exotic. Something he hasn't tried before, or is maybe afraid to ask for. I'll bet things will settle down after a few of those things occur._

**New? I can find it. Exotic? I know just the person to ask about this. Ta!**

_Wait! The person? Ask what?! _

_Are you there?! _

_Oh, good Lord…._

Sherlock glanced at the clock. It was about one in the afternoon. Plenty of time to accomplish what he needed to. He grabbed his coat off the rack, took one last look around the flat, and then closed the laptop before heading out through the front door. If he remembered correctly, it wasn't that far away where he could find exactly what he was looking for. His long strides ate up the distance in no time. Only a few streets over. And hopefully, if he was lucky, tonight would be the night to end this strangeness. To solve the case of JohnWatson! He smiled to himself as he turned the last corner and found what he was looking for.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John arrived home at just about 6:00, takeaway bags in one hand, and his coat in the other. He was starving and couldn't wait to sit down to his dinner. As he wiped his feet on the entry mat, he heard voices drifting down the staircase to him, and he paused to listen. _Please tell me Mycroft did not stop over,_ he pleaded silently. But another few seconds of listening in allowed him to realize that the other voice not belonging to Sherlock was feminine. _Maybe it's Molly?_ But that didn't make any sense because she should still be at work this time of night. He walked up a few of the stairs, easing his way slowly toward the source of the voices. They became more distinct the higher he climbed. And then he heard the woman laugh. _Not Irene, either, then. That is definitely not __**her**__ laugh._

"And they really paid you to do that? Why?"

"Oh, sweetheart, men'll pay for just about anything."

"How odd."

"It just depends on how flexible you are morally sometimes."

"Well, I don't believe that sort of thing is necessary here; although I cannot vouch 100% for his preferences, I imagine them to be somewhat more mundane than those contrivances people have had you using."

"Oh, I don't mind, as long as…" Her voice trailed off as John came through the door, eyes wide open as he took in the situation. He saw Sherlock sitting on his arm chair, relaxed, with his legs crossed. And across from him, curled up with one leg dangling off of the doctor's own arm chair was a woman of about 30 years of age, scantily clad, and wearing excessively high heels, one of which threatened to fall off of the foot which dangled from the chair. Both she and Sherlock looked to him, she with an appraising gaze, and he with only hopeful expectation. It took John barely 20 seconds to put together what was going on, but he still waited for Sherlock to confirm his fears. He didn't have to wait long.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, practically leaping up from his seated position then flowing gracefully over to John and scooping the takeaway bags from his hands. He moved to the kitchen where he deposited them. John followed behind him, smiled politely at the young woman, and slid the kitchen door closed. He turned to face his flatmate, his best friend…the most _annoying_ man he had ever met.

"Sherlock…"

"Mmmm…" the detective replied as he poked through the baggies of takeaway.

"What. Is. _That_?"

"General Tso. Would you like some?"

"In. Our. Living room."

"Well you can have it here just as easily." It was hard to tell sometimes whether the younger man was being sarcastic and joking, or if he really was so oblivious to the real meanings behind people's words. John crossed to stand before him, grabbing the tiny box from the other man's hand and setting it none too gently onto the table. He looked into those silver-blue orbs, so full of what seemed like clear honesty and innocence.

"_Her_. There. Why, is she, in there?"

"Oh. Well, I brought her in for you. A gift of time. Two hours to be exact."

"And you, hmmm, thought I needed this…_why_?"

"John, please. Any idiot can take a look at you lately and see the signs of loneliness and the need for sexual encounters and intimacy. All of the symptoms are there." John's eyes grew big at first, then narrowed as he continued listening. "You're dissatisfied with a job that you normally take much pleasure in. You don't make any efforts at dating anymore because you've found how endlessly mundane and boring those encounters are. So you have begun to desire something different. Something more stimulating, perhaps." John's eyes were devouring Sherlock's form as he spoke, and Sherlock took this as a confirmation. "Something more interesting, even. But you haven't placed what it is yet, have you? Perhaps it _is_ just that your tastes have shifted to a different area, and you have just not yet discovered what it is exactly that you're looking for? But how would you ever know if you don't look?" Sherlock walked around the table as he continued deducing the case of John Watson out loud to its main subject, certain he had all of the relevant data for his conclusion. "You have turned to seclusion with me instead of seeking out solutions to your problem. Instead of trying new things or discovering what your new interest is, you instead spend all of your free time with me." John was shaking a little by this point, his hands opening and closing. "What is it that has caught your mind and attention to the point that all else has faded away, John? What has changed? All else has lost its importance, so that you merely seek comfort here, in the familiar."

Sherlock paused to consider John's appearance. Trembling hands, gaze boring into the younger man's but seeming to look past them, body stock still as if caught surprised in the headlights….his eyes seemed almost frightened, too. What was wrong? He seemed almost a man who had figured out something formidably chilling. _Ah, he probably doesn't like being on the other side of my deductions,_ the detective thought. _He certainly gets angry enough with me when I do it to other people_. Maybe this was too direct an approach? What to do? A gesture of support perhaps? The time honored shoulder pat? Sherlock moved forward as if to do this, but John stepped back away from him.

"I'll be in my room for a little while. See you later tonight. Maybe," he all but whispered as he turned to leave, practically fleeing the room. Sherlock called out to him, but he didn't turn or acknowledge it. And a short time later, the door upstairs slammed shut. The detective winced. _Damn. This hasn't gone as planned at all_. He looked toward the living area, and then slid the door open. He cleared his throat to get the hooker's attention, and she obliged by swinging around in the seat.

"Well. It seems those services, of that particular nature, will not be required tonight."

"But you paid for two hours. Was he just not up to it?"

"I don't know. It's quite puzzling, really."

"Well," she said as she stood and slinked over to him, stopping to raise a hand to his chest, "Is there anything I can do for _you_, Mr. Holmes?" She looked coyly up into his flat stare. And just as he was about to tell her to just take a night off, he stopped himself, glancing back into the kitchen before speaking.

"Hungry?"

"Er….what…?" she stuttered, stumped. "Sure, I guess." And he put on his best I'm-not-a-sociopath smile as he took her arm and led her into the kitchen.

"Excellent. And how are you with breaking dishes? Glassware in particular?"

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Three hours later, John found his way back down to the main flat. Hopefully, that woman would be gone by now. He was having far too many strange revelations this night to suffer company with. He scrubbed his hand over his face, trying to wake himself from the dream in which he found his emotions whirling. _It just can't be,_ he kept repeating to himself as he crossed in to living area. And his heart skipped, fear racing over him as he saw Sherlock sprawled across the couch in a way that said he hadn't _chosen_ to be positioned that way. He had fallen.

By the younger man's side in seconds, John shook the facedown form of his friend. "Sherlock," he pulled him roughly around onto his back and pulled open one eyelid. The other opened of its own accord then, and he found himself staring into a very confused face. "John?" The doctor sighed, "Yes. What have you done to yourself now?" he asked, dreading the answer, as he thought he could see a syringe on the desk. "What have you taken?" And Sherlock's brow wrinkled down, then sprang up in comprehension.

"Oh! No, John. No." He pushed semi-weakly away from the doctor, trying to sit up, and John ended up having to help him do so. "Insulin. I was seeing how much it took to simply slow your mind." John became utterly confused.

"What? Why?" he demanded.

"Because that's how the stripper died, John. The man that she danced for last, he was diabetic. He carried a syringe of insulin with him in his pocket for while he was out drinking; too many carbs in beer, you know. The cap must've come off in his pocket somehow, and when she was rubbing against him, it pricked her. She had about 15-20 minutes before it went into effect. She must've gotten enough to knock her unconscious. She was found lying in a decidedly awkward fashion, though. She fell that way, lightheaded from low blood sugar. And with her medical condition of sleep apnea combined with the poor airway positioning of her landing…it just snowballed a bad situation, and she died."

John took all this in stoically, used to Sherlock's brilliance, but not wanting to praise it at this moment when he had clearly hurt himself on purpose. So he held his tongue about the conclusion and instead focused on what the young man had done to himself.

"So why, then, if you know what happened, did you have to give yourself insulin?"

"To _know_, John."

"Know what?"

"Everything. I realized that had I ever before experienced a hypoglycemic event induced by insulin injection, then I would have had a better understanding of its effects. Then maybe this case would've been solved even quicker. Don't you see?"

John got up and brought the detective a glass of orange juice back with him. "Drink this. All of it. How much did you take?"

"Only about 6 units. Given my metabolism, the fact that I haven't eaten in a good while, and my weight, I figured that was the safest dose."

"The safest…dose…" John whispered unbelievingly to himself. And he stood, looking down at the seated form of Sherlock Holmes, who swayed slightly when he lost John's steadying hand. "Are you bloody insane, then?!" Sherlock's head snapped up, not expecting the outburst, nor the strong undercurrent of anger that made headway in John's emotions. He looked puzzled at the doctor's outburst, which only spurred John into new heights of anger.

"You can't just put drugs into your body, Sherlock-bloody-Holmes, just because you want to _know_ something! People just don't do that!"

"Insulin is a natural chemical occurring in the human body. It isn't as if I were turning back to…oh. Is that what this is about? My previous drug habits?" He stood to face John, almost toppling as he did. "Because, John, I can assure you…"

"No! No. You can't assure me of anything, can you?! You'll just keep on doing things to yourself; glass bits jutting out of your body, bleeding you dry. Drugs injected into you, by your _own_. _hand_." John closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, feeling the anger and concern thrumming through his veins. He was scared for Sherlock, true. But it was also deeper than that. How could he make him see?

"John, I really don't think the situation calls for such concern. I am perfectly capapapel…capapabable…capa…I can take care of myself," the slurring detective finished with a swipe down his dress shirt, trying to appear in control and, well, _capable_.

"You can't even speak! How can you possibly think this was safe?!"

"_You're_ here."

"But not all the time! What if….if…gaaahhh! You great fool! How can you be so bleeding smart, and so damnably stupid?! It's like I live with a child!"

Sherlock took affront suddenly, finally sensing through his sugar-deprived mind that John was well and truly going off on him. "What business of yours is it anyway?!" he yelled as he spun away from John, turning to face him a few paces away. "I _live_, for my work. And _this_, this is my work! It's a part of it. You've _known_ that from the start. Don't play the fool, John. It doesn't suit you." And Sherlock made to walk by John then, weakly trying to shoulder him aside with his height advantage, but John stopped him, firmly, with an arm flung out to catch him. It ended up pulling him with the detective a few feet first, though. And the younger man turned abruptly, leaving John with his arm around Sherlock's back, and their faces but inches from one another. The better to feel the anger and hurt rolling of off the detective in waves of heat.

They stared into each other's eyes a moment, each stubbornly gauging the other's resolve in this argument and finding no ground given up. Sherlock broke the silence first, his voice shaking like his body, "You don't _own_ me, John. Mycroft does this, too. Thinks he _owns_ me. _Controls_ me." He shivered. "Never. Again. No one will _ever_…" And he just shut his mouth and stared daggers. John was surprised, but still pissed as all hell.

"I don't want to _control_ you, you great berk! Just keep you safe. From yourself." Sherlock's eyes widened at that, as if he had heard the same words before, from someone else, and they did little more than just anger him further. He leaned down to John's ear, speaking vehemently as he whispered, "Keep me safe? From myself? Oh, John, I had thought better of you. Why should I? Go on. Give me a reason for listening to you. You can't." He pulled his head back to just where they were nose to nose and smiled a cruel smile. And all of the repressed anger and emotion came firing out of the doctor at that moment.

"Trying to control you? What are you on about, you _idiot_? You great, bloody, smart-arse! You think you've got everything figured out, then, don't you?! Because you're the Great Sherlock Holmes! Consulting detective to the stars! The man who doesn't need such normal, boring, ordinary folk like me to blot out the shine in his star!" Sherlock's eyes lost some of their heat as John continued. "You're such a fucking genius that you can't figure shit-all out in the realm of everyday life, can you?! No, you can't! So here I am, screaming fuck-all at you, and you don't care! You're too god damned smart to see what's in front of you!"

Sherlock leaned back, looking, _really_ looking at John in all of his angry glory, from the tightly clenched fist, the rigid torso, the angry set of his face…and the _something_ that dwelt within those eyes of his. What was it? "John, I…"

"No! No, don't you start again, with your accusations! You think you've got me figured out, Sherlock? Do you?! You don't know fuck-all!" John began advancing on the detective, inches at a time, sometimes just a further leaning inwards, and Sherlock retreated, but slower, allowing John to gain ground unconsciously. "But _I_ do. I know _exactly_ what's going on now. With me. With you. And you don't see it! The _great_ detective doesn't see it! Ha!"

"John, I think you need…."

"I'm IN LOVE with you, you _bloody_ _idiot_!" John screamed in his face, hands gripping the sides of the detective's Belstaff. But as the words flew from John's mouth, so too, did his anger. He seemed to retreat a bit as he whispered, "I'm in love with _you_: an impossible man who can't even have the decency to return such feelings." And with that, he pushed away from Sherlock, opened the door and passed through, and carried on down the stairs and out of the flat.

Sherlock stood as if deep within his mind palace, not a muscle twitched or made to move. One could barely tell he breathed at all. His mind spun in turmoil and confusion. John. John. His flatmate. His friend. His John. He saw it laid out before him now, and he frantically sought answers in the morass of bombarding information. Sherlock had analyzed many things in his life. Some comprised of details too minute for anyone else to even spark an interest in them. But he loved it; _lived_ for it. The surge in the ignition of the billion billion neurons within his mind to attain an answer in one penultimate moment of clarity…was intoxicating…but…..would fade, as all things did for him. _Except John_. Thinking of his flatmate now, and the words that he had spoken so recklessly in anger, he wondered. Why? Why _this_ man? He thought of John's eyes, and that _something_ that they held within them. He superimposed himself, in his mind, over John's being; and their visual fields blurred into one. And for just one nanosecond, Sherlock saw himself as John did. _Felt_ what John felt. And he had his answer. "Oh!" came the gasp. And then a sting at the side of his neck. _What?_

A polite, slow applause from one set of hands broke the silence of the flat, and James Moriarty stepped from the shadows of the doorway leading to the stairs. Sherlock's hand flicked up to the sting at his neck, and something fell to the floor. He noted the dart gun spinning lazily in Moriarty's hand. _No_. The other man noticed the direction of his gaze and drawled, "Yes, they're just as fun as they look." He smiled at Sherlock. "Don't worry, won't be but a few. More. Seconds." Sherlock's thoughts attempted to right themselves as the drug coursed along his veins. _John. No…..John_. He fell to his knees, and then over on his side, watching the expensive leather clad feet of the consulting criminal approach him. _John_. He fell into nothing.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: So here's a teaser mini chapter to give y'all a taste of what's coming up! Uh oh for Sherlock…**

Sherlock's eyes slowly opened, revealing a wondrously stocked and furnished study. _Must be, hmmm, maybe second floor? Definitely not ground. One door, locked. Small vents. One phone._ His vision sharpened as he came more into the conscious realm, and he found himself staring across at James "Jim" Moriarty. The consulting criminal's profile was all he could make out for the moment. And then the events prior to him blacking out came flooding back with echoes of fear and helplessness. _John!_ Jim must have been in the flat the entire time. Or, possibly, he had been observing the flat from a ways down the street and has seen John leave, letting himself in since John had been in a hurry and hadn't bothered to lock the door behind him. _Damn_, he thought to himself as he realized his wrists and lower abdomen were secured with duct tape to the free standing chair he sat in. There must be no one nearby who would rush to his aid either, or else his captor wouldn't have left him ungagged. Curious, a bit that. And then those dark eyes flicked sideways, and Jim turned to face him, the light traces of an Irish accent still clinging to his words.

"Good morning, dearie. I realize that you've already analyzed this room about three times by now, so there's no need for me to tell you that it's a hopeless cause to try for escape at this juncture."

Sherlock locked eyes with the man, saying, "Secured to a chair, higher than ground level, me waking to face you dead on….how very…_conventional_ of you," he sneered. "Got big plans do you? Ask my brother to trade for government secrets? Force Lestrade to stand by while you do…whatever it is that you actually do?"

Jim smiled a tiny, fast-dying little grin as he first looked down, then back up at the detective. He grabbed something from his jacket as he walked slowly over beside Sherlock. Then he held it out for him to see while he toyed with it. A small, sharp, dagger. "Oh, those are all _normal_ ideas, Sherlock. Uninteresting. I've got to go a step farther for _you_. After all," he crouched down a bit, chanting, "I. Owe. You." He stood back up fluidly, circling the chair once to return before his prisoner, speaking in his favored sing-song voice, "I've got something _special_ for yoooouuuu." He twirled the knife. "An offer. And one of a kind, too. Too good to pass up." Sherlock stared up at him in challenge, obviously not believing a word Moriarty spoke. "Aren't you ever…lonely?" Jim began. The knife stopped spinning. "Oh yes, you _are_, aren't you? That's what you were trying with, what's his name, your little pet? John? Yes, you were going to play with him, weren't you?" The knife resumed its slow turns as the slight man began to walk once more.

"Don't you need someone who _understands_ you? Sherlock?" he drew out the name like a prayer, almost whispered. And he reached over from behind and ran the blade along the detective's ribs as he spoke softly, circling. The sharpened edge slid along and up to the side of Sherlock's temple as he continued speaking, "Someone who _thinks_ like you?" He was just about returned to his position in front again. His grip adjusted on the knife as he suddenly straddled those long legs, pressing against the detective firmly and looking into those silvery blue eyes, so cold, and continued, "_Feels_ like you?" And then, just light enough to draw blood, Jim nicked his own forearm with the knife, holding it up between them, and watched in silent fascination as the blood ran downward and onto their laps, eyes flickering to Sherlock's intermittently, his voice almost inaudible now, "Someone, who_ bleeds_ like you?" The consulting criminal's eyes cast their unholy light up to Sherlock's own as he fondled the red-tinged dagger lightly…and he smiled, "_Do_ you bleed, as I bleed, Sherlock?" The detective merely steeled himself for the pain to come. But suddenly, the ever-fickle Jim Moriarty jumped up and strode over to his computer.

"Have to keep tabs on your friends!" he said merrily. "Wouldn't want them barging into our party too soon. We need to be sure there's plenty of 'us' time first." His hands flew over the keys, stopping here and there as he focused on something. Then, he sat for a moment, studying the screen and pulled the knife up to file at his nails as he waited for some unknown sign. "They're awfully dense, you're _friends_." And he lapsed into silence, watching, waiting. Sherlock finally figured he was getting no facts by remaining quiet, and he was starved for a bit of information, any piece of data, that he could analyze and put to use for himself. So he chose a course of confrontation with the most chance of successfully garnering him what he was in for here, as this madman's captive. Though he had an idea, and the physicality of it sickened him, especially with this newfound question of John. He could survive physical assaults on his person, but how would it affect John? _That's a matter for later consideration, though. For now: information reconnaissance_.

"It's disgustingly mundane, what you're doing." Jim looked up from filing his nails as the sound of Sherlock's voice broke through the silence of his study. He cocked his head, smiling as if to say, 'Go on.' The detective continued from his tethered position. "So, you're going to, what, _rape_ me?" he said, popping the 'P' in the word rape, making it sound such a tedious action. "Threatening me with such physical brutality…." he shook his head as if in reprimand…"Ordinary. Predictable." His silver eyes locked on the other man's as he finished, "_Boring_." And Jim smiled all the wider, setting aside the knife and standing to cross back over to the restrained detective. He leaned down into Sherlock's eye level, absent-mindedly running a gentle hand down the side of his prisoner's face before speaking softly. "Oh, I want your body, Sherlock," he began, leaning ever closer to an ear to whisper, "But I'll have your _mind_ first." His hand glided over a shoulder and began tracing down the length of the taller man's lean extremity. "Mind first. Then the body. Will. Follow," he finished, tapping the arm to emphasize each of the last few words. Sherlock's gaze was as ice as he stared in challenge to this declaration. And Jim bit his bottom lip, nodding, as he leaned back and looked thoughtfully down at his prisoner, still smiling. Only it didn't reach his eyes. "And the best part? After a while, you'll hate yourself. You will _**hate**_ _yourself_, Sherlock…..because you'll want this, too."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Y'all stay with me. It'll get dark….**

"_And the best part? After a while, you'll hate yourself. You will __**hate**__ yourself, Sherlock…..because you'll want this, too."_

Jim slid a hand up to the neck of the dark haired detective, humming softly as he did, observing the visible pulsation of life beneath his fingertips. His hand ran through the base of the soft curls and back down again along to the shoulder, with Sherlock attempting to turn away from the contact. Ever mercurial and shifting, Moriarty's temperament had flowed into its next incarnation. One could almost forget the deep and dark hatred that had just been vomited forth but moments ago. These sudden changes often kept his enemies off-balance. And friends, too, if any could ever be so named. He slipped one hand into Sherlock's, squeezing, as if in support of something frightening to come. The other gently retraced the upward stroke of blood through his prisoner's carotid…oh, so, gently. As if Sherlock were made of spun glass. It came to a stop as his humming changed tunes, transitioning into a nighttime lullaby, sweet and lilting in its peaceful chorus. And the consulting criminal began to apply a precise, direct pressure to the arteries on either side of Sherlock's trachea. The detective stared the other man down as he did so, determined not to give in to his intimidation games. Jim wouldn't kill him. Not _yet_ anyway. So that meant the man choking him would merely be trying to make good on his promise of…whatever it was, exactly, that he thought he was going to accomplish here. He tried not to struggle, remaining rigid, even as the heavy weight of darkness began to settle around his shoulders. His vision dimmed, leaving only the vague impressionistic outline of his captor against a field of blackness as he slid into unconsciousness on wings of smoke and mirrors.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The music was so soft as to almost be imagined. It swirled among the prisoner's awareness like water before a dying man. Teasing. Tantalizing. His thoughts were too cloudy as yet to put a name to the melody, but he thought he recognized it. Maybe. After blacking out, his mind was slowly returning to its former focus. Cognizance replaced the temporary escape of his dreams. His surroundings remained constant, so he hadn't been moved while out. Expensive, and spacious, the study was lined with books, ledgers, and all other manner of the written word. A large mahogany desk with a high backed leather chair behind it was positioned about ten feet away, whereon his nemesis perched. A window, most likely directly behind him by about another fifteen feet or so, let in the last of the day's sunlight, settling across the walls around him in warm tones. That light alone informed him that he had only been out for maybe a half hour. And the air hung stale, cool, and dry, despite the occasional breath of wind let in by the aperture of the window. No sounds drifted up through that open space either, he noticed. Everything seemed calm, very much too calm. And here he sat, the prisoner, wrists taped securely to the arms of his own leather-clad, mahogany chair. And another band rested about his waist, connecting him to its back. He sat there. Sherlock Holmes. Trapped.

He looked closely at the desk and its owner, who sat facing him nonchalantly across it. Something flickered across his mind, and his brow drew down. Fear? He considered it. Perhaps. Hadn't he been listening to his captor drone on about something before he was slowly choked into unconsciousness? A promise owed? Plans…for him… Something…about… His head snapped up, making eye contact with Jim, his awareness returning fully with the memory of what the man before him had assured. Not just a physical assault, but mental as well. And a cold shiver worked its way up his spine when he saw the way the consulting criminal had fixed his eyes upon him. There was something in the other man's hands, and he toyed with it in a most distracting manner. A syringe, partway full, came forth into his view for a second. Jim's fingers slid lovingly over the body of it, and another hypodermic rested beside his elbow. Now that he knew he had his party's attention, Jim moved, suddenly grasping the syringes in one hand as he flowed upward and stepped toward the detective, dragging another smaller chair with him.

Not a word was said between them as Jim sat down beside him and grabbed the sleeve cuff on Sherlock's left arm roughly, tearing the fabric up to the crook of his elbow. The criminal's gaze wandered down with great interest at the tiny, almost invisible, scars that dotted this area. Footprints of a past not long forgotten. He gripped the distal end of Sherlock's bicep, creating a tourniquet with his hand alone, and the veins responded within seconds. The two syringes were brought over with the other hand, laying one to rest across his lap as the other came down against the vulnerable skin overlaying the surfacing blood vessels. Jim bit his bottom lip as the first slid home, and he released his pressure hold above the insertion site as he began to slowly inject the one containing white fluid.

"Very low dose of propofol. Quick acting, but very short lasting. In larger doses it causes a hypnotic state and amnesia. This dose will simply make you more…pliant." He removed the syringe without injecting all of the white liquid. "Saved a bit for an actual injection so it'll be absorbed slower; last a while longer." Sherlock could feel his head becoming foggy already as the remainder of the syringe was then jabbed through his shirt and into his deltoid. He could barely feel the burn. That probably wasn't a good thing, he thought passingly as the other man pulled the second syringe forward, repeating the same tourniquet action. Blood from the previous injection site welled up and dripped to the floor as Jim selected another vein and slid the point through. "Insulin, calculated on your body weight and the last meal I saw you eat. It'll keep you weak, and your mind slow. I thought it appropriately poetic, considering your last case led me to think of it."

The syringes were quickly discarded once finished, Jim letting the injection sites clot off on their own, which created a small puddle of blood beneath the side of Sherlock's chair. The detective fought to keep his awareness about him, but he could feel the encroaching sluggishness of his mind. And he realized with horror that he was unable to focus and locate his mind palace, where he had planned to retreat during any planned physical assaults. He struggled feebly, trying to mouth off at his offender. Jim just smiled back, stroking Sherlock's hair away from his brow and leaning down to his ear, "How does it feel?" He leaned back to gauge the reaction to his question. The wild haired detective just stared, numb, back at him. A light perspiration had begun to gather on his brow. So Jim repeated himself.

"How does it feel? To be ordinary? To be _boring_?" Sherlock tried to twist his arms, but they were so heavy, so useless. Jim noticed and smirked, bringing out his knife once more. A slow shot of fear tore across the detective's body at the flash of cold metal. But Jim merely sliced through the tape securing Sherlock's wrists, leaving him tethered by his waist only. His arms fell from their perches and dangled limply. Even holding his head up was becoming an effort. And he watched as Jim replaced the knife in his pocket and crawled across from his own chair to straddle his lap. Sherlock opened his mouth once again but could get nothing useful to emerge, so it just hung there, partway open, his glassy eyes looking up into Moriarty's deep brown ones.

Jim ran his hands over Sherlock's arms and shoulders, humming appreciatively to himself before finally settling one hand on a shoulder and the other at the detective's cheek, dragging a nail down it. "Nothing to say? No witticisms?" He gripped Sherlock's chin in his hand. "How about this?" He squeezed harder. "You _need_ this, Sherlock. You've known it for a long time. Without _me_, you're nothing." Then he tipped the detective's head up a bit more for inspection, as if checking the drug's effects. He was quiet for a moment before breathing into the silence, "You're nothing. But together…we could be…" He closed his eyes, finishing, "_everything_." He stroked his hand lovingly along the long, pale throat, hovering over the pulsing artery for but a second before moving on, teasing about his previous strangling.

"Aren't you curious? Don't you want to see the puzzles of the world that I have available at my fingertips?" He brought his head down to where his lips just brushed the other man's neck and shoulder. Sherlock's head tilted somewhat to the other side of its own accord, granting more access to the site without meaning to. Hot breath flowed over his skin, "Your potential," a light lick to the skin of neck, "is endless," and another, "with me by your side." A soft kiss to the same area followed, gently deceiving in its delivery. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed as he fought to push out Jim's words and ignore his actions, the combination of the hypnotic and insulin making the ordeal worse by threefold.

"No judgments for your actions here with _me_," Jim continued, working his way down the line of the shoulder and then back to the clavicle. "You could do," a slow lick, "whatever," a longer swirl of tongue over the bone, "you," a kiss, "like." He leaned back, looking into the face of his captive. "With no recrimination." He leaned into Sherlock's face, causing the eyes to open, their silvery depths clouded for now. But still Jim could read their echoing interest, even through the confounding effects of the drugs. He smiled, almost shyly, and leaned down to place a quick, chaste kiss to those beautiful lips, saying afterwards, "No punishments, because there are no rules."

The second kiss began as one-sided. Then, much to Jim's surprise, and secret delight, those lips moved against his. And that oft-sharpened tongue just barely grazed his own, sending a shiver of thrill down through his bones. He slid forward a bit more on the detective's lap, creating a hot friction between them, and raised his hands to the other man's shoulders. Sherlock's eyes had fallen shut again as his mind circled the dregs of his brilliance. But his traitorous body unconsciously sought the promise of completion in both the physical and mental act of lust. He tried to raise his arms to hold Jim in some way; or maybe to push him away? But they wouldn't react to his will. _Why won't they move?_ The kiss deepened as Moriarty slid flush against the detective, tongue sweeping in and claiming his mouth. He almost lost track of his arms at the feel of the other warm body pressed along his. But then…

_I…I can't…move…why?...I…what is…he…what am….I…no….no….No….No…NO!_ And he thrust his head to the side, breathing heavily as he came to the surface of the fog for but a few moments, horrified at the results of their prolonged contact. Long enough to see the coolness return to Jim's eyes as he tilted his head and spoke. "See now? How's it feel?" He reached out and stroked the detective's chest once more. "Good, wasn't it? No price to pay. Just take what you want. Do what you want." He stood, maintaining eye contact with Sherlock. "You think about it. And in our next session, we'll see how much _more_ agreeable I can get you." He smiled, then leaned over as if about to be imparting a secret, "Just know that the drug combinations I'm administering won't cause you to act any different _morally_ than you normally would; other than being slower mentally and lowering your inhibitions, that is. Your choices are still your own. Sooooo…" He pulled back and strode off, calling over his shoulder as he went, "…thanks for the kiss!"


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Whoa damn, people. I've been channeling some serious angstiness for this chapter. Thanks a lot to Revella for egging me on and letting me bounce ideas off of her (be they crappy or not). And for those who asked me what the timeline for this fic is in relation to the shows: This fic would take over from the middle of The Reichenbach Fall. Everything up to where Jim comes over and has tea with Sherlock happens. After the tea part, then my fic picks up. So there.**

By the time John returned home, it was late. Very. He'd already had a bad day in the clinic, an argument with his best friend…and had revealed a secret that was never meant to come forth- even to himself. That last part had deflated his anger quickly as he walked the darkened streets of London. It was less a revelation than an acceptance of what had already developed. Unacknowledged feelings that led down paths neither had trod before, though in differing ways for each of them. And he had to figure, Sherlock's path was steeper and more twisted than his own. This would not be something the detective welcomed, John was sure of it. Though there had been gestures and actions from both sides that bespoke of the more-than-platonic existence they shared now, he had to face the reality that was Sherlock Holmes: an impenetrable fortress of mental acuity and sharp words. If the man had ever loved before, then there was no evidence to support it. Though it wasn't as if the man had absolutely _no_ feelings at all, given his obvious alternating affection and annoyance with Mrs. Hudson. But that was merely _affection_, _fondness_. And it was rarely allowed to see the light of day. Of deeper, stronger emotions, there was no evidence. Not a trace. And if his relationship with Mycroft was any example of the family he had been born in to, brought up in…then that could be John's unfortunate answer.

He had considered Sherlock's actions over the last week or so, and also the ones witnessed tonight. He had examined them from every possible angle he could conceive of, almost to obsession. It was crushing to admit your love to another, and then have nothing returned. True, he hadn't stayed long enough for Sherlock to respond to his admission, but the look of surprise on those aristocratic features had shown him at least that it hadn't even occurred to the other man before that. "I'm an idiot," he muttered as he climbed the stairs. He stole a glance upwards, noting that the door above was open…and that he had shut it when he had left. Had Mrs. Hudson come by? No, she would've shut the door on her way out. Not like Sherlock… Had Sherlock gone out then? He pondered a moment. No. Even for _him_, leaving the door to the flat open while both of them were gone was a bit out of character. So what then?

He couldn't explain the feeling that began to settle within his bones as he gained the top of the stairs. It was an eerie premonition of things to come. Like the moment before you started falling, when you just realized that your footing had given away. And he stood there, peering through the opening, wondering at this oddity. _Nerves_, he reasoned, and passed through the doorway and into the living area. His feet carried him perhaps five paces into the room before his hands went numb, and the feeling resolved itself into full-throttle fear. Not the fear for one's life, but the fear for another's.

The flat was calm. Peaceful. Undisturbed. Terrifying. He forced himself to take it slowly, breathe, and focus on his surroundings. All of the furniture, knickknacks, and other household items were as they should be. The windows were closed. Nothing was disturbed. And yet, the room itself was disturbing him. His eyes finally fell to the floor, and his heart skipped, skipped, _hurt_…. There was something on the floor. A piece of paper? Trash? A note? He walked quickly over and identified it as an old-style Polaroid, which he bent down and then brought up to eye level. His mind could barely process what he saw as his vision dimmed around the scene depicted there: Sherlock, lying face down on the floor with his head turned sideways toward the camera, eyes closed. It was unclear whether he was dead or unconscious, but John suspected the former, for now, as he studied the features of the picture's second subject…James Moriarty stared winsomely up at him, his face held down level with the detective's, grinning widely in this old-fashioned version of a selfie.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"I'm not afraid of you, James. Killing me would get you nowhere; it's illogical; so you won't. You'd have nothing to occupy your time, then. No _nemesis_ to play with, to taunt." The air was cool, but still, as he spoke. The detective could barely raise his enfeebled arm to gesture in dismissal of the threat the other man posed. Damn the insufferable bastard and his strength-robbing cocktail! Sherlock lay helpless on the mattress he had been deposited on, able to talk, able to think (albeit slowly), but too weak to even roll over. He must have finally passed out before, in the chair, from the drugs' influence, because when he next gained awareness of his surroundings, he found himself horizontal in a small, shadowy, and blank room. His shirt was gone, having apparently been removed at some point while he was being relocated; ostensibly for the placement of the IV he now had.

There were restraints on his wrists and ankles, but they were slack, allowing for a good deal of movement. All planned meticulously in correlation with his weakened state, no doubt, because there was no way he could make good use of the loosened bonds. His focus shifted to the more proximal. Moriarty lay stretched out alongside him, only scant inches between their torsos, crisp Westwood hugging his slight frame as he reached up to stroke the detective's face while finally responding to the other man's statements. "Oh, Sherlock," Jim hummed as he nuzzled into the soft, dark curls. "I won't be your end," he breathed onto the ear lobe in front of him before giving it a teasing nip. "I'll break you down. Take you apart." He shifted up to his side so that he was propped on his elbow looking down into Sherlock's confused gaze. "I won't be your _ending_, Sherlock," he smiled as he leaned far over, touching their noses together. "But _we_ will be your beginning."

Jim rolled off of the mattress and walked over to the bedside table. It was dim in the room, everything bathed in grays, except for the blue light shining from the screen of the IV pump as it relentlessly trickled the hypnotics and other vile chemicals into the detective's body. The shorter man smiled as he rummaged through a container on the table, smiling as he found what he sought. He turned to look down at Sherlock as he explained, "I'm going to try a little _teensy_ something else on you this once. Want to know what it is?" The detective's now steel-gray eyes met his with an emotionless gaze, as if he couldn't bothered to wonder at Jim's silly games. It affected the consulting criminal not at all, though, as he proceeded with his tutelage. "There's some good bits in here, Sherlock," he teased. "Some very little amounts of ecstasy and other, hmmmm, _stimulants, _of a sort…." Those steel eyes blinked once, the only hint that the words had been absorbed. Though outwardly cold to the world, inside Sherlock's mind, he fought desperately. The drug combinations Jim was hinting at were designed for maximum loss of inhibitory factors in the brain. It was all about altering his mood, his basic principles, so as to allow…what? But _**we**__ will be your beginning,_ Sherlock heard replayed in his head. And in that moment, all that was at stake fell into his focus. What better way to defeat Sherlock than to convert him? Alter him chemically and then add psycho-suggestive elements…. _Oh….__**no**_. And Sherlock felt fear pour into him. Pure, cold, and hard, like the bedrock at the base of a glacier. Baskerville's momentary fear couldn't relate, couldn't _compare_, to this. With Baskerville, it was an outside, unknown entity stimulating the fear. Now, he knew _exactly_ what he was facing, what he was afraid of: _himself_. Because he knew just what _he_ was capable of…..and it scared him more now than it had scared Mycroft when they were younger…..

He started as he felt the initial burn and sting of the new 'medicines' added to his current infusion. Jim smiled and laid the empty syringe down, crawling back in bed beside the detective. Heat swelled up within his body as the drugs reached his heart and spread their fiery influence to throughout his periphery. He felt as if he were rising off of the mattress, though that was impossible with his restraints. He fought to keep perspective of his _actual_ reality and not give in to the new one attempting to superimpose itself on him. But, _oh_, it was _hard_! Sherlock's eyes rolled back, fluttering closed as Jim's hand was suddenly roaming across his bared abdomen, the well-manicured nails scoring lightly. Every sense was heightened. Every nerve burning with a fire that both cleansed and tortured. _No!_ He tried thinking of Mrs. Hudson and her God-awful blouses and worrying remarks. He thought of Lestrade and his propensity for teeth picking and making that little clicking noise. He even thought of Anderson and his, his…_self_…..but even _that_ was of little success in staving off the _thing_, the _beast_, that was growing and rising within his chest like the scream of a thousand dead things. A result of the drugs, sure, but as real to him in this time and place as his own blood and bone.

He gulped in a large breath as Jim shifted himself once more against his side, and he felt the proof of the man's arousal. Even fully clothed, it was still a violation. Or was it? _Yes. Yes, it most definitely is!_ However, it felt so good… _No! No, it doesn't!_ But, if he even _could_ pull away…would he? He'd like to think so. His mind seemed to be flitting from one sensation to the next. And as those cool fingers made a quick teasing dip in, and back out, from under the front of the detective's slacks, he felt his arms try to reach out of their own accord to the source of his stimulation. And Jim noticed, smiling lazily. He pulled even closer alongside the detective, nipping at his neck and whispering, "Pieces, Sherlock. Like London Bridge. Falling down, down, down." He licked his way from the shoulder to the base of the throat, "I will break you into pieces. I will watch you fall apart, in my hands." His voice deepened, "_By_ my hands."

And Sherlock struggled to find purchase on the slope that led down to this crucial temptation of knowledge coupled with ultimate power and physical excesses. No rules, except those you made yourself. Ideal, for one such as he. And yet…and yet…there was _something_… The other man had started kissing down his jawline, simultaneously running a hand along a thigh, each stroke coming teasingly closer to the groin. Little sparks felt like they were following those hands on his trousers. What was it?! It was there, _so close_. His drug-addled brain made connections too slowly. But in the end, they _did_ still make them….. Sherlock's eyes snapped open. _John_.

He struggled, weakly, but still enough to alert Moriarty to his brief return of awareness. "Oh well," Jim drawled, halting his actions. "Guess we'll have to continue working on you after all. But that's alright. I've got the best chemists in the world working for just, this, purpose, right now. So it won't be long. Be right back." He pushed off the bed and left the room briefly, returning with a small baggy of IV fluid that had a cloudy, slightly turbid look to it. He deftly hung it, spiked the bag, primed the tubing, and connected it in to the secondary port on Sherlock's IV. He gave a half grin, dropping the length of the tubing after finishing, and began programming the machine as he spoke. "We'll try a bit of this for about a half hour, see what happens. Do scream if it's too much." He leaned down closer over the detective, saying slowly, huskily, "I would _so_ love to hear you scream, Sherlock."

The detective didn't bother watching the other man leave the room, closing his eyes almost immediately after those last words had left Jim's lips. He had to hurry. All of his efforts of resistance were refocused inward. Sherlock sank far down into his mind palace, its buildings and myriad thousands of rooms spread out before him, searching through its solace and escape from the darkness of the small room he had been locked into. His body may lie secured to a bed, but his mind at least was still free to roam. For now. Although, who knew how long that would last? Already, he could feel the effects of the new medicine flowing into his veins through the IV secured to his wrist; even this far down into his memories, it burned. Jim had as much as promised that he would keep him permanently semi-sedated and weak with either hypnotics, insulin, or otherwise. For an undetermined length of time. He had no idea what other torments of _mental_ design might be in store for him. But he could imagine... Sometimes, his burgeoning brilliance was not such a boon; because he _knew _James Moriarty. Had deduced him. And felt he was intimately aware of what the man was capable of. In this knowledge, he was not gladdened. He felt a rush of lightheadedness sweep over him. _Must hurry_, he urged himself as he sought deeper within the recesses of his mind.

He fell through level after level of blindingly intricate mazes of memory and light, seeking, seeking… And there, he found him. John. His John. His favorite memory of him at least: brown woolen jumper, bluejeans, and sturdy work boots. Lifelike and responsive in every way. And it was for this he had searched, for he had hidden him deeply already, even unto making it difficult for _himself _to locate the memory. He paused, observing the likeness of the doctor he had created in his mind. Perfect. Everything. Perfect. From the slightly tanned coloring, the weathered appearance from too many days in the sun of Afghanistan, and the careworn look to his eyes that he only shared with Sherlock. Relief flooded through the detective that he was still there. The doctor stood in a cleared away area of almost-nothingness, a gray sky all around and above him. The rooms and buildings of the mind palace remained stationary in the backdrop, seeming frozen in a time all their own. The detective approached slowly, speaking as he did.

"John." The seeming ghost of John Watson turned toward his voice, and the younger man advanced, lifting and placing his hands lightly upon those strong, dependable shoulders. "I've got to do something, John. And you've got to let me." The doctor looked puzzled and tried to speak, but Sherlock wouldn't allow it. "No. Please. Let me tell you this." He stopped, looking at the ground between their feet, searching for the words. Powerful words. Painful words. Here, in the safety of his mental fortress, he could fear no judgments for his actions. His sentiments. Here, where everything was by _his _rules, and by _his _will. He looked back up into the specter's eyes, seeing the warmth reflected back at him. So real. So reassuring. So _John_. It would be missed. _He_ would be missed. Greatly. He continued, finally finding his courage as he glanced at the landscape wavering around him. The drugs were taking firmer hold.

"I don't have much time, John. He's trapped me. He's really got me this time. Take away my intelligence, and what have you? Just a man. A troubled man, in an impossible situation." He cleared his throat, feeling his eyes begin to sting. "And this man must choose a course of action." His eyes found John's once more, and steel entered his voice. "You will find me. I have no doubts. But it will take _time_. Time I don't have. Jim is clever. Oh, is he _clever_. He knows just how to beat me; to get to me." A sick, macabre grin tore his face as he looked away for a second, "I could almost convince myself we were made for each other, he and I." And then his eyes swung back to John's, lightning forming within their almost azure depths. "Except that there's you. And _you_, John, disprove that theory." He sighed. "You keep me grounded. _Human_." Another deep breath with a pause. "And so I must make a choice. One that I will not be able to live with long after; but I shall live longer than if I were to keep fighting at this. Fighting _him_. And it will give you time." His hands ran slowly down the doctor's arms, who glanced down in surprise to see this gesture of affection from the self-proclaimed sociopath. The long, artful fingers came down to rest on John's wrists, enveloping them.

"I must put you away. Somewhere safe. Protected. Where even_ I_ can't find you." Sherlock looked up at the blank slate sky, the backdrop around them warping slowly into a maelstrom, the tops of buildings twisted and pulled towards the center of which. Wind picked up around them, fluttering through their hair and clothing. "He means to take _everything_ from me. And that means his task is very simple. He must only take _you_ from me, John." A pause as he calmed the swelling emotion within himself. "Through drugs, or shock therapy, or mental destabilization. It matters not _how_ he does it. He will win eventually, if I continue to fight him. The transport that bears me can only take so much before capitulating." Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed, allowing the thin ribbon of tears that had formed to flow forth and down his cheeks, and he reached a hand up to John's face, drawing a thumb down the other man's cheek. "I shall hide you where he'll never be able to reach you," he whispered. "And when you find me...finally...try not to judge me too harshly for my actions, whatever they may be. Know that I…will not be myself, as you know me." He drew a ragged breath, an almost-sob, "I may not recognize you when next we meet. But I _will_ recognize the good in you." His heart clenched tightly within him, the pain exquisite. "And that, I hope, will keep you protected, keep you safe..…from me," he finished pitifully. His voice dropped to a whisper that only he could hear, spoken more to himself, "And I…..I will simply be waiting for you to wake me up from this nightmare." He took John's hand slowly, gently, feeling like death had crept inside of his soul…..and led him into the darkness.


	11. Chapter 11

One Week Later…

Silver-blue eyes snapped open like a crack of lightning, pale features as blank as new canvas. Still, everything. So still. The eyes were the only evidence of awareness, for the body lay immobile, as if in homage to death. Sherlock's normally piercing gaze seemed empty initially, still filled with the void of sleep and dreams. But what had woken him? He strained his awakening senses, much more attuned to detail than ever before thanks to the many and varied tortures of both sensory deprivation and overstimulation he had born up under during the last….how long? He realized he had no idea. He could recall vague flashes of indistinct memories, though he was unsure whether they were real or fashioned by his destabilized mind. He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his vision and mind simultaneously. His room remained the same as every time he had slipped toward the surface of his suspended unreality. Plain, unadorned, white, sterile. And always dim, only allowing for partial illumination. He turned his head as he noted that the blue glow from the IV pump was absent. Yes, there it was beside him. Off. No tubing hung from the pole. No medicine. No drugs.

He realized with a start that his wrists were unbound and jerked his arms upward, feeling along them with his fingers as if to affirm this. He glanced quickly at all four corners of the room, his gaze finally settling on a camera in one of them that faced his bed directly. He stared into it momentarily, weighing his options. Then he gave a mental shrug. Why care anyway? Gingerly, he pushed himself up from the mattress and lightly placed his bare feet on the cool wood flooring. The loose cotton pants they had him in were his only item of apparel. He ran a hand through his hair, noting that someone had obviously been bathing him, as it wasn't matted or otherwise. And, not being one to care overly much about such things as modesty, he moved on.

His back ached, and his limbs felt ill used, but he felt in decent repair overall. His eyes stopped for a minute when they found the small cotton ball taped over where the IV had been in his hand. Why had that been necessary in the first place? He struggled with the memory, but it wouldn't come to him. And who was that man he had dreamt of? The one that seemed to appear every night, even when he screamed in anger at him, demanding his name? He felt he should know him, and well. But the connection simply escaped him for now. Mist flowing through his grasp. No matter. As it seemed he was expected to find his own way about, he would leave these questions for later, if at all.

He stood, wobbling a bit at first, and then steadying himself with a hand on the bedrail. He saw clothing laid out for him across the foot of the bed, and he smirked as he noted the brand. Moriarty was here apparently. He felt this should mean something to him. Scare him, maybe. At least be a source of worry. But in truth, it meant very little. In fact, _everything_ seemed to be diminished. Bland. Uninteresting. He wondered at this. He could only remember feeling this sort of apathy years ago, before Lestrade had found him and given him a drive, a purpose, for his mind. What was it? Some sort of investigative…thing. His mind was so hazy. He even had trouble picturing the DI's face. When had he _ever_ had issues with recalling things? He sighed, loudly, stealing a glance at the camera before stripping nude and dressing in the doll's clothing he felt had been laid out for him.

The suit was snug, flattering every inch of his long, lean, frame. Such a deep, dark blue that is was almost black. Matching slacks and polished shoes followed. He truly _had_ been undressed by someone, then, judging by how well-tailored these clothes were. He stood in front of the mirror, feeling as though a stranger was staring back at him, and the door behind him opened. A very large man entered with a tray of light breakfast. He set it to the side of the bed as he passed the detective wordlessly. Then he turned smartly, facing Sherlock. "Boss says you're allowed the inside of the house. No more, though, until he approves. We'll be watching." He started to leave, then added, "And he said you can take your meal downstairs if you don't take it here, either eaten freely…..or otherwise. Doesn't want you wasting away on him." Short and to the point, the man then walked from the room, leaving the detective to stare after him. He spared a glance for the meal tray, and then he walked forth from his recent prison and into the morning lit hallway.

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"What news, then?" John asked as soon as he crossed the threshold of Greg's office. The DI looked up from his computer, noting the wild hair, the wan complexion, and the darkness under the other man's eyes. He may even have dropped a few pounds. Sherlock's disappearance had torn John Watson's equilibrium lose from its bearings. Not that he himself hadn't been affected. He thought of his half-eaten lunch still sitting in the break room and sighed inwardly. He leaned back, showing his frustration in his posture, hands on his thighs as he spoke.

"There was another Polaroid arrived just an hour ago when I texted you," he said. And he could see the doctor's color grow paler as he quickly added, "Nothing bad! Just….odd, is all." And the clarification seemed to help ease the shorter man's anxiety.

"Well, what is it, then? Where's it at?" John tried to keep the panic from his voice. He needed, _desperately_ needed, evidence that Sherlock was alive, was unharmed. And his fingers twitched as the Polaroid came out of an envelope and was offered up to him. The envelope looked as if it had been 'sealed with a kiss' or some other such silliness. But John had no time for those kinds of observations. His attention was focused solely on the frozen scene captured on the film.

Sherlock sat at the end of a very long, formal dining table. There was fruit, toast, and other light fare displayed in front of him. Yet his utensils appeared to be untouched, much the same as his plate was empty before him. The truly odd thing about the picture, though, was the look Sherlock was giving the cameraman. It was so blank, devoid of any emotion. John considered himself a fair expert on the many moods of Sherlock Holmes, and he knew that if the detective had been scared, angry, or anything else, then _he_ would have been able to tell. Just from one moment captured in time. It made his heart hurt to think of how emotionally close they were now, and yet how far away physically. But still, the younger man didn't look bad, considering. He may be thinner, but then, Sherlock always looked thin.

"So what do you make of it then? I mean, he looks decent enough," he asked Greg, who sat looking at him with his head now resting on his hands, elbows on his desk. The DI reached out a hand and touched the back of the Polaroid with a finger, eyes never leaving John's face. The doctor's brow wrinkled downward, and he flipped the picture over. An inscription was there at the bottom. "First Day of School," John read in a whisper. He looked up quizzically at Greg, who just shrugged as if to say that his guess was as good as any. He looked back to the picture of his best friend on the front of it. _Oh, Sherlock…where are you?_

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The detective walked aimlessly through the many corridors of the large mansion. Any hope of leaving the place was quickly shut down by two facts. There were ample men posted at any given exit. And the mansion itself was apparently located within the center of many acres of land, so there wouldn't be any chance to just skip out and disappear into a crowd. Not that escape particularly concerned Sherlock, but he _would_ like to know his options. So after abandoning thoughts of this nature, Sherlock found himself simply mapping the many twists and turns of the myriad hallways. One of a lesser mind might easily become lost within the place, so vast was its domain.

In a bit, he found himself turning in to a pair of double doors upstairs on the third floor in the late afternoon. And he recognized it. Here was where he had first woken to his imprisonment, though he still couldn't recall quite _why_ he was being held in the first place. He certainly felt no fear for life or limb, so why should his captor feel the need for such precautions? Perhaps it was merely a strange business arrangement they had ongoing? Also, the fact that James Moriarty was always clearly insane, no matter his intelligence level, spoke volumes for this entrapment. Or perhaps…. On second thought, he didn't care anyway, and so he merely continued his perusal of the study. More of a library really. Books lined every available space of the area, he noted as he had upon his first time in the room. And the room itself took a large enough portion of this section of the third floor, making it quite an attractive place to relax. The desk sat as it had before, computer on a lock screen as he passed it by. The window was open to allow a draft inside, and an endless lawn spread out below him.

He turned from the window, and walked to the other half of the room, noting the large television screen set into part of the bookshelves lining the wall. All about it, and in other parts of the room, were wireless speakers. The sound system of a king lay in this room, and Sherlock wondered what was routinely broadcast through it. _Ah_, he exclaimed mentally to himself as he spied the iPod by the screen. And he smiled, almost anyway, as he walked over to the electronic device and picked it up. He tapped at it, noting there was no passcode needed to operate, and then settled it down into the docking station that connected to the sound system and screen. The display flashed once, then the larger television screen took over. He hit the selection that was meant to play the last song listened to. What began to flood the room turned his almost smile into a full blown chuckle, and then a sudden laugh as the very first words erupted into the air. It was the song that Jim used as a ringtone, "Stayin' Alive." Sherlock turned away, figuring he'd allow it to sift through the other man's playlist at will while he used this opportunity to think about his current situation. However, only about 30 seconds had passed since the song started when Jim strolled through the double doors.

Sherlock made a quick evaluation of the lines of Jim's body, seeing that he was unarmed, relaxed, and apparently saw him as no threat. The criminal's eyes slid up and down Sherlock's apparel appreciatively, then his gaze flicked over to the iPod. The music had definitely caught the other man's attention, and he smiled, saying, "How appropriate. Our first song together." Sherlock stared in the most bored expression that he could conjure, seeking to annoy. To no avail, for the one-sided conversation continued, "Have you enjoyed your lessons? Hmmm?" He chuckled a bit, finishing with, "But then, I guess not. They're not the kind you're supposed to remember." The detective decided not to take the bait, and instead chose to ignore.

He merely raised an eyebrow and then resumed his original circuitous route as Jim's gaze turned somewhat more interested in his movements. Strange. Like predator and prey. Only with some sort of intense sexual undertones involved. Even Sherlock, a man of a self-proclaimed hypo-emotional state, could read the tension underlying that scrutiny. Like the other man was restraining himself from such lewd acts as could only be imagined. He wondered suddenly, _What would that be like?_ And he immediately regretted it. There was something in his gut that was telling him to stay away from this man. Sure, it _could_ be the whole keeping-him-prisoner thing, but since the detective didn't feel concerned at his entrapment, he didn't believe that was it. There was some history here that he was missing. But then, at the same time, he was also feeling quite drawn to the man. _Why?_

Perhaps the challenge of such a mental pairing was the appealing factor? He just couldn't be sure, couldn't sort it. It was as if he was both drawn _and_ repulsed by this man. _Why?! _He knew Jim was a criminal of the highest order. He knew that they had, in the past, held an almost-rivalry between them. But he could also remember feeling an electric pull between their bodies whenever they stood in the same room, breathed the same air. Almost like…a constantly evolving rotational magnetism. Sometimes repelling, sometimes pulling. Sometimes hating, sometimes….what? His mind felt so out of sorts while straining to remember the circumstances around their past encounters. Each time, he felt the same thing. He could see them together, confronting; and he could feel the fear, hatred, and…and…and yet also a drive to protect. A caring, warm tone of sentiment. A loyalty unknown to him any time before. Was it Jim who inspired these feelings? He was the only one there, after all. It all felt so strange, so alien, so…..good. So what had stopped him from exploring these sensations before?

Sherlock realized too late that he had been staring. And Jim had a shy, almost bashful little smile play across his lips in return. The shorter man was selecting another song apparently, fingers skimming over the little iPod. And when he found it, he put it on the queue as the next to be played. The current one was starting to fade out, so Jim spoke again now that his voice could be heard more properly for a moment. "Care to dance with me, Sherlock?" And the detective's only reply was to frown harder, confused. Dance? "C'mon, then. You danced before." His voice deepened, "I watched you." Jim's eyes roamed down and back up, the stare blatant, with no subtlety. "It was…_delicious_." And then the old song ended, a few moments of quiet followed, and the next picked up. Sherlock's mind was knocked off track instantly with the choice of music. Apparently, James Moriarty was as intemperate in his music as he was in his personality.

Moriarty, who had seemed more given to enjoying classical music. Moriarty, who was an old-fashioned man in a young man's body. Moriarty, who until this time was thought to have had his contemporary musical interest peak with the 70's era. Sherlock's eyes found the words floating across the programming screen. "Turn Down for What" performed by DJ Snake & Lil Jon. _What the bloody hell?_ The harsh beat of the hip-hop rhythm mixed with electronica filled the room with a pulsing life of its own. It burned through the air like a static charge, and the fine hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck raised a bit when Jim started dancing, giving him a light shiver. The shorter man began with a slow, artistic, pop-and-lock bit with a spin as if to introduce the concept to the detective, and then…..

Sherlock found Jim up against him suddenly, eyes burning with wildfire in their depths as he rocked against the detective's taller form. "C'mon, Sherlock," he leaned to whisper loudly in an ear, hand sliding around the other man's back and down to his hip, pulling them together and moving down and back up in a slow grind. "Dance for me," he growled. He switched hands and brought one up to the still motionless detective's face, dragging a thumb over the lips. His breath was hot over Sherlock's chest as he brought his face down to apply an open mouth to exposed clavicle. Both hands then dragged up along the long torso to end up behind the detective's neck, all while Jim continued to swivel their bodies against each other. He looked up into Sherlock's eyes quickly as he felt the other man sway just the smallest bit in response, and he smiled. In any other context, that expression would have melted the hair from a person's head with the fear it inspired. But again, Sherlock Holmes was not to be measured against such social norms.

As the second half of the music began, Sherlock found himself begin to respond somewhat to the other man's touch. He seemed to half-remember dancing like this before. Where? His eyes shut as he thought, but nothing would present itself. The feel of Moriarty's body against his own…was worrying…was exciting…was wrong? He was slowly adjusting to the beat as he thought it out, trying to delay any realization by Jim about the track his thoughts were on. And then, he realized that Jim had brought his mouth over his own, and his eyes opened in shock as they stood motionless through 10 seconds of the song. Then they fluttered back closed, and….. Sherlock's long, slender fingers shot out and grabbed around behind on Jim's ass and pulled him roughly against the detective as the third portion of the song belted out loudly, the base vibrating through their bloodstream. Sherlock felt a singular thrill at this forbidden thing they did. His mind warped in on itself, bending to accommodate this new data, this new…feeling. And they danced together, against each other, mouths parted and often making brief contact. Dirty, fluid, sinuous. There was no mystery here, only a desire, deep and dark building within him. He had no name for it, no experience with which to compare it. It was raw, like a fresh wound. It was hard, like diamond-based steel. It was [pulse hammering in his chest] it was [hands wandering over burning flesh] it was [minds colliding in an explosion of brilliance] it was [fountainous and wanton need bursting forth] it was [teeth and tongue and blood] it was [anger and hate and desire and angst and sadness and joy and despair and hate and love and hate and elation and hate and forbidden and hate and hate and hate and Hate and HATE] too much…

Jim found himself spun about suddenly with Sherlock behind him, one elegant hand placed delicately around to the divide between hip and thigh the pressure firm yet not; the other snaked up under Jim's own arm and landed in the center of the criminal's chest, pulling him flush against the taller man's form. _Must stop. Now_, was barely heard through the storming thoughts of the detective's mind. But still, it was heeded. Sherlock's head bent forward, almost to Jim's neck, breath blowing out over it, raising gooseflesh in its path. And James Moriarty, despite the massive state of his arousal, exulted in his seeming victory. He could take him now, if he wanted, just one more small nudge in that direction… But still the detective remained there, body rigid, as if he had forgotten what came next, hands splayed over Jim's front. Both breathing hard, they remained this way as the music faded; and with it, the detective's hands also slid away. A twinge of disappointed anger followed this, though Jim hid it for now as he watched the other man walk from behind him and over to the iPod.

Bemusedly, Jim wondered if the detective desired another session. And he was surprised to realize that he actually hoped for that occurrence. The power he felt he had over his nemesis was intoxicating. Here he held a mind like his own. Powerful, unfettered. And together, they could do…_anything_. The breaking had already taken root. Soon, Sherlock would know only this existence. Amazing what a few psychological principles could do when applied synchronously with torture of the senses. Especially when the subject was already somewhat morally compromised to begin with. Sherlock's fleeting smile caught his attention suddenly as the other man found what he had been looking for on the music search. And without so much as waiting for it to start up, the wild haired detective glanced with an amused expression over his shoulder at Moriarty as he strode from the room. Jim stood there frowning, momentarily stunned at the action. But when the song came on, his smile returned as he recognized it immediately: "I Hate Everything About You" by Three Days Grace. And his laughter followed Sherlock down the hallway.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Much love to Revella, who has spurred me onward and made sure my more angsty moments are full of just the right balance of emotional instability. **

Sherlock continued on slowly down the hall, Moriarty's harsh laughter following in his wake. What he had done back there was impulsive, difficult. And against his body's wishes, if he were to admit the truth. In a simpler situation, maybe he would have just given in. But none of it added up. At all. The feelings he experienced from the other man were so conflicting. It truly _was_ as if he both loved _and_ hated him at the same time. Though perhaps _love_ was too strong a word. Perhaps captivated, drawn in, lost…were more apt labels for what he felt in the other's company. But _why_ did he feel these things? An objective review of all their past encounters and confrontations did nothing to quell the confusing blur of emotions. Every interaction between them that he could bring to mind exposed no evidence of what could be inspiring these feelings of affection and loyalty. In every memory, Jim was there, taunting, teasing…often committing crimes of intensely focused hatred against the detective himself….so why the feelings of loyalty, possessiveness…attraction? He shook his head. It was as if the friction of these warring thoughts and feelings was opening a chasm within him; he just had yet to implode with the rest of himself.

Looking up from his feet, he started paying attention to where he was going, attempting to head back in the general direction of his room to sleep. And that was another curiosity. Why did he desire sleep? He couldn't remember the last time he had actually _willingly_ given in to slumber. Yet, his mind kept pulling him towards the world of dreams as though it was on a mission of its own. And then there was that man whose face he couldn't remember when he woke up. So familiar in the dream, yet all but forgotten once awake. Perhaps he should make a trip to his mind palace tonight in place of sleep? Work on a way to gain freedom from his captivity? Though, he _really_ did want to see that man again….and he just couldn't find the inclination to escape. He didn't fear for himself, but he did worry somewhat at the instability of his captor…thoughts for later then. So he decided that, tonight, he would not give in to sleep so quickly. He would stay up, as was his usual wont, and do…something. What, he had no idea. But he was a genius; _someone_ had said so, repeatedly, in his past. So he should be able to find something simple enough to entertain himself with within the Moriarty home. Now, to decide whether that something would be _constructive_…or _destructive_. He smiled.

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When Moriarty finally ceased his laughter at Sherlock's choice of song, he was breathless. The heady feeling of victory might have been swept from under him at the detective's abrupt departure, but the damage was done, for Sherlock anyway. Anyone could see. Sherlock would be his. The way the taller man reacted to him was like an addict around their particular drug of choice. They couldn't help themselves. And neither would Sherlock soon. They were too perfect a match. He grinned as he passed by the wet bar, pausing to pour a small bit of scotch into a short crystal glass. He reached over to a drawer on the right side, pulling a straw out. Not just any straw, though. Long, slender, and red, it looped back around on itself several times before coming to its end. He plunked it unceremoniously in his drink, and turned to face the door.

Two men stood outside of the double doors, one to either side, just a sliver of each was visible from inside the room. There was always at least one man on the study doors at all times, blocking access to the consulting criminal's main computer. Earlier in Sherlock's imprisonment, Jim had let it be known to his staff that the detective was not to be bothered as long as he didn't do anything too stupid or suspicious. Not that any of his several dozen probable members of the Homo erectus designation would _ever_ be able to discern a deception performed by the young detective, but still… Principle. Jim set his drink down carefully as he thought, just for a moment, that there had been a sort of smirk on one's face. He sucked at his top front teeth once, and then strolled over and outside of the doors to stand before them. He kept his hands clasped behind his back as he looked at each in turn, kind of fidgeting back and forth as he spoke, picking at his jacket top. "Something amusing?" he smiled as if there was a joke he was about to be let in on. Neither replied, turning a bit ashen at having their boss's attention so centered on them. For the most part, James Moriarty ruled by dint of his intellectual prowess. However, everyone under his employ also was aware, very aware, that he had a dark streak of obsidian cut straight through his soul, and cruelty could come very easily to the surface. Very quickly.

"Why are there two of you?" he suddenly changed the query direction, affecting a light and airy tone. They remained motionless, each afraid to speak first as Jim paced before them talking almost as if to himself afterward. "There really needn't be _two_ of you here, on one entrance," he reasoned with himself, nodding slowly. Then, Jim sighed dramatically, closing his eyes and tilting his head as though listening to an internal voice, his lips twitching up into an amiable grin. Then those brown eyes snapped up and over as he spun, pulling a gun from around underneath his jacket in one smooth motion. No time for reaction or thought from either silent witness. He fired once, silencer preventing most of the sound from escaping its casing, and the man fell back and to the side, finding that his brain had great difficulty functioning with the metal now residing inside of it.

Jim looked down at the corpse, whose blood was quickly running out of the new orifice the bullet had created. His gaze held no remorse or pity; or even recognition of what he did. It was almost as if he was already thinking of something else. Something pleasing, by the different kind of smile that crossed his features. He then flicked his eyes at the other man, who remained at his post, but had a fine tremor running along his frame. Sweat beaded on his brow, and a tiny muscle along his jaw twitched. Jim walked up and patted his cheek with a beatific expression. "Be a doll and get that taken care of, will you?' he said, gesturing nonchalantly with the barrel of the gun towards the body. The remaining man nodded anxiously, relieved at having been given something to do with his nervous energy, and set to calling for assistance. Jim smiled, feeling much better now, and rubbed the top of his head with the short gun's barrel. All thoughts of ruined hardwood floors puffed out of his consciousness. He retrieved his drink and headed for his room to change. Perhaps a nighttime stroll around would resettle his thoughts? Yes, that would be lovely.

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After refilling his glass once more, Jim settled the black dressing gown around his shoulders, a pair of deep green sleep pants paired with an extra soft matching shirt underneath. He checked himself once in the full-length wardrobe mirror, stopping as he passed by it, always a one for keeping up appearances. And in an instant, his good humor evaporated as he took in his polished appearance; poised, even in pajamas. _Yes, Mom wouldn't have had it any other way….. _He snapped the gown down straighter on his shoulders_. Her…__**clients**__…would have been disappointed_, he thought darkly. His mind almost fell into that dark swell of repressed remembrances for a minute. Then he shook the past with all its groping hands from his thoughts and set out for a late ambling of his hallways, trying to convince himself that he wasn't simply taking a roundabout route to Sherlock's room the whole time. And failing.

He approached the detective's well-appointed, though clinically malignant, guest room with a mixture of anxiousness and, well, _fun_. He hadn't ever thought to find someone so like himself in the whole world, and especially not someone who he had been almost automatically set up against. It was invigorating to think of what they'd be able to do once he had completely turned Sherlock. It gave him a sense of a rush in the pit of his stomach just to contemplate it. Plans spun like strands of gold through the back of his mind, always moving…..always. And it was with these giddy thoughts that he entered….a fort? He looked around himself, bewildered, as he stood just inside the doorway. Beyond was…constructed chaos. Sheets were stretched out across great spans from one wall to the next, connecting to the bedrails, and then onward to the single chandelier. Some were supported by pens that had been stabbed into the wall, others by bits of string the other man had managed to find and procure for such industrious purposes as these. Here and there amongst the display of pristine whiteness, there were smudges of a red substance, sometimes looking a bit on the darker side, maybe brown. They were in no particular pattern that the consulting criminal could decipher, though, so he guessed it was happenstance, whatever it was.

And there, in the middle of said 'fort,' sat the wild haired detective on a pillow mound, wrapped tightly in one of the sheets that had survived the others' maiming. Jim sipped at his drink, keeping the tip of the straw in his mouth as he approached. His head tilted to the side as he studied what lay before him. A few more paces into the room brought him closer to the object of his scrutiny. [Sip] His stare took in the wild construction Sherlock had created, and then moved on to more of the red substance that lay gathering on the floor. _Oh. Blood_. [Sip]. His eyes settled on the detective's hunched back as he then noted the source. Those soft browns widened slightly, then returned to their observation. His lips pursed for a second, and then his voice broke the silence softly.

"So.….you really _are_ a weird one; aren't you?" Sherlock looked up from where he drew lines of blood across his forearm, twisting his head to peer over his shoulder, a smear of the red fluid on his cheek.

"I was bored." He looked back down at his seeping wounds, "Why? What do you do when _you're_ bored?" Jim shifted his feet, then placed one hand on the footpost of the bed, gesturing with his glass in the other as he replied thoughtfully.

"Mmmm, I kill people. Ruin their lives." [Sip] He shrugged. "Not always in that order." [Sip]

Moriarty leaned over the detective's shoulder, trying to read what was carved in blood across the pale skin on the underside of the other man's forearm. It seemed to be more of an actual word than just the random cuttings of a stagnant mind. There was a pattern to it. He stepped closer and leaned down further. And what he saw almost made him fall over, his drink spilling a bit as he righted himself. Sherlock looked up at Jim as some of the amber liquid splashed over him, his eyes questioning. He held up the arm, asking, "Tell me….does this mean anything to you?" Low lighting in the room made it appear a ghastly sight, and the inscription stood out in stark contrast to his alabaster integument: JOHN.

Moriarty looked hard into Sherlock's eyes, searching for a glimmer of deception, of _knowing_. But all he found within those silvery-blue depths was an honest inquiry. And he breathed an inward sigh of relief, confidence in his methods restored. He never knew what, or exactly _when_, he had been able to break Holmes' mind during his "lessons." It was as if a sudden amnesia had taken hold of the other man one day, waking and holding no knowledge of John Watson and his goody-goody influence; freed of his moral compass. His calming and structured presence. _Sickening_. Jim's people had informed him that it was likely to happen this way, so abruptly, but it was still difficult to believe that such a mind as Sherlock Holmes' could be taken in so little time. It begged the question of whether or not his own mind was just as susceptible, and he didn't like that. He didn't like any sign of vulnerability….. But those were thoughts for another time. For now, his captive was looking up into his eyes openly, hiding nothing.

"Biblical reference?" he suggested lightly. And the detective's gaze turned cynical and sarcastic, one eyebrow raised to imply 'You kidding?' Then he snorted and turned back to examining the name carved across the canvas of his white skin. Jim studied the detective's posture for a second, taking in once more the odd manner of garment that had been opted for when readying for bed. It appeared he had doffed the suit for a shirtless, toga look, probably with sleep pants on underneath the sheet that hid the rest of him from view. Its large, white fabric was wrapped securely around the detective, except where it hung somewhat loosely from his slender shoulders. The consulting criminal scanned how it clung to the man's contours, slowly deducing and evaluating in his own way, and finding something odd in his musings. He stepped even closer, now coming to stand fully beside the wild haired man on the floor before him.

"Are you wearing any pants?" he asked, bemused and half-kidding as he returned the straw to his mouth for another pull at his drink. Sherlock shrugged, the sheet sliding down one of his shoulders further.

"Nnnnnnnope," the detective answered, playing with the small blade he had used for his cutting.

The sound of Jim's drink being very suddenly emptied filled the room with a short slurp, attention became laser focused and pinpoint now. He glared at the traitorous empty crystal before setting it down on the bedside table. Rearranging his dressing gown, he stepped to the bed and sat down on it, watching as the detective repositioned the blade in his hand once more as if to cut himself further. Jim watched the rapt concentration pass over those beautifully formed features for a moment before intervening. He leaned forward and smoothly removed the knife from the other man's hands, setting it beside himself on the bed. He clasped his hands in front of himself on his lap, looking into the eyes that now stared questioningly back up at him. Then he reached into his back waistband to pull out the gun for the second time that night.

"Ever play Russian Roulette, Sherlock?" he asked as he ran a finger along the cold barrel, his eyes locked on its metallic length. He snorted a laugh at the thought in his head. "We played it differently in the ghettos of Ireland….._two_ bullets." He smiled, eyes dancing up to meet the detective's, "Care to play with me?"

The words hung in the air between them. Sherlock cocked his head to the side for a minute, expression thoughtful, considering….and reached for the gun.

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John sat on Sherlock's chair, legs folded up under himself. His eyes accidentally landed on the violin, and they squeezed shut, the pain becoming a fire so cold it burned. God, it burned. They hadn't heard anything in days. Under normal circumstances, days gone by wouldn't be near much cause of concern. But this was bleeding _Moriarty_! Who had sworn to 'burn the heart out of" Sherlock. What was happening to his friend? Where was he? Was he safe? Was he hurting? Was he…alive? That last one crushed him, making him sink deeper into the chair. A takeaway box sat forgotten beside him, and he felt cold all over. Premonition? No. He wouldn't think like that.

His eyes held fears best left inside for now. His heart….held things, fragile things, that desperately needed nourishment that only the knowledge of Sherlock's condition could supply. A tear ran the length of his cheek as he thought of the last things he had said to the younger man. Hateful things. Painful, to both of them. And he felt _it_ coming on again, but he didn't fight it. Slowly, a sob wracked him, and he coughed on it, turning his head down and into the fabric at the top corner of the back of the chair. The coldfire burn within himself shone brighter as it consumed him from within. And the flood came. Again. As it had every day that Sherlock had been gone. Taken. Forever?

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Jim had watched in fascination as Sherlock had placed the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. _Click_. Nothing. His eyes had held Jim's the entire time, and they sent a shiver down his spine that threatened becoming a full body quake. And just like that, the detective had handed the gun back. And Jim smiled at the further evidence of the success of his lessons. He had taken the gun and repeated Sherlock's gesture exactly, pulling the trigger without hesitation, staring into those silvery depths. _Click_. No all-encompassing darkness. _Ah well, another day, then_, he thought as he set the gun down on the bedside table.

The detective shifted off of his mound of pillows and began to rearrange them, lying down as if to sleep. Jim watched curiously, wondering what he was up to. And when those curls hit the top pillow, the deep baritone floated up to Jim.

"I'll be gone for a while, but you're welcome to stay. Being as it's your place and all," he said with a flourish of his hand.

Initially, Jim was confused, watching the eyes close and the other man's breathing slow. Gone? Did he mean sleeping? Maybe it was….Oh! He nodded as he recalled the infamous "mind palace" that had been mentioned a few times while he had been doing audio reconnaissance on 221B. Interesting…. He had heard John complain, often, of Sherlock disappearing into his "bloody damned palace" several times; often while the doctor was in mid conversation with the younger man. And from all evidence, it seemed that disturbing him once he was immersed was a near impossible feat. He had even heard the detective get rolled onto the floor once without emerging from the trance-like state he entered. And his eyes once more scanned the relaxed features of Sherlock Holmes, a smirk-provoking idea of his own coming to fruition. _Near impossible feat? …..hmmmmmm…..what possibilities.…. Perhaps an experiment of my own?_ He climbed down from the bed and settled himself on the floor at Sherlock's side.

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Sherlock traveled his palace at speeds impossible in reality, scanning everywhere for something, anything, that could lead him to the answers he sought about the odd mixture of conflicting emotions surrounding Moriarty. He had a suspicion that the man from his dreams had something to do with it. Like his subconscious was trying to tell him something. But he couldn't focus on that train of thought. Every time he tried to bring the man to mind, his cognition became slippery and flighty, falling off of the subject at hand every time. Like he had some kind of auto-pilot amnesia. And it frustrated him like nothing had in a long while. He had always had perfect control over the structure, environment, and memories within his mental construction. What made this time so different? _Gaaaaaahhhhh!_ He realized then that he was screaming aloud in his thoughts, frustrated beyond belief.

He spun around to try a new direction, and almost bumped straight into Mycroft. His gasp of surprise, and subsequent anger, was instantly burned to kindling at the look on his brother's face. Storm clouds couldn't convey the danger that Mycroft Holmes was exuding at that moment. And Sherlock sought to go around him, but the other man's hand shot out, catching him in the center of the chest and holding him fast. He felt his feet become wooden, as if they no longer obeyed him. His body was much the same, as if it was in rebellion against his brain's wishes for motion. He struggled against what was, essentially, himself…and he lost.

And once that realization set in, Mycroft smiled beneficently at him, but his hand remained firm on the detective's sternum. The storm clouds in his features were held at bay for now, and Mycroft inclined his head slightly to indicate the region behind him.

"You can't go there, Sherlock. Sorry. Rules _are_ rules, even when they are self-imposed," the older man delivered the words in a matter-of-fact tone. And the younger Holmes fought to discern the meaning behind them.

"Self-imposed? I did this?" he asked incredulously.

"Mm, yes. Rather impressive, actually. Breaking a thing into its component of senses and scattering them. No single one of them will draw the memory out. All must be combined. It's remarkable, even for you, that you ever thought to do something so….._inhuman_." He paused, a look of dark ponderance focused on the younger man. "Or is it?" He smiled then, letting his hand drop and turning to leave as Sherlock's mind raced at the implications here. This was _his_ doing? Why? What could have possibly….

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice cut through his thoughts like a hot blade, and his head swung up to face his brother once more as the other man continued while walking away, "Do be careful, brother. I tried to deduce your heart once for you, remember? And you know the inconclusiveness of _that_ study….." Sherlock tilted his head, remembering a day long gone, distant and cold; but he didn't get far down that path before Mycroft's lingering voice, barely audible anymore as he disappeared from view, drifted back at him, "Better get back now, Sherlock, and see about that thing I was just telling you to guard for…."

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Jim had lain beside Sherlock for a good few minutes, just admiring the planes and angles artfully displayed in the flesh of his body. He reached a hand up and lightly touched each eyelid. No reaction. He ran his thumb across that cupid's bow. Still nothing. He could feel the thrill of this erotically naughty situation building inside himself. So he pushed up onto his side and then leaned down, planting his lips squarely where his thumb had just caressed. And though there was no response from the other man, still the violation of it gave him a tingling warmth that reached his toes. Was this what those pig clients felt as they had lain over him when he was little? A soft, yet firm, warm body, unresponsive but still present? It both disgusted and delighted him to be mimicking similar acts. He broke the one-sided kiss and studied those features once more. He had hated them once. _Why_? He smiled. _Who cares_?

He moved lower, to the chest, placing soft kisses across the clavicle. Then he spread the sheet further, allowing for greater access of the torso. But that wasn't his goal. No. He had seen the detective's torso many times before. Pale and lithe. Just the right combination of muscle and bone without seeming _too_ thin. Delicious, yes. But it wasn't the objective. He moved the sheet further aside, working his way down the abdomen. At the lower portion, a light trailing of hairs led downward. And he followed, parting fabric as he went until he reached his destination.

He knelt between the recumbent detective's legs, having opened the sheet completely, exposing the entirety of Sherlock's body to the soft light of the chandelier. His hands each rested upon a long, firm, thigh. And he tightened his grip as a hot wave rolled over him, nearly burying his control. This was beyond intoxicating, beyond addiction, beyond….._anything_ the consulting criminal had ever experienced. He closed his eyes as he refocused himself, the hardness held against his lower abdomen by his pants doing nothing to help this effort. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes again, running his hands slowly up along the tops of the thighs, feeling the soft hairs under his fingertips.

Though mentally retreated into his mind palace, Sherlock's body was still here in the present. And it reacted in the manner of any stimulated male. Moriarty watched it happen with a kind of repressed desire, wanting to touch and taste, yet holding back on both. He desperately wanted to remain controlled and calm. Reaching out slowly, he slid one hand along the length of Sherlock, noting how it jumped just slightly, and he grinned. He bent closer, bringing his breath right up against the pulsing member, and he lightly stroked his finger up the side and back down, loving the way it responded.

Next thing he knew, he had taken the tip inside his mouth and was running his tongue around the head. Sherlock's breathing caught for a second at that, and he paused, waiting. When nothing further introduced itself, he continued, moving it an inch or so deeper, tasting more of the man he would never admit to being obsessed with out loud. He swallowed a bit as he tasted the precum that emerged, pleased with the success his experiment was having. His own arousal was aching by now, but he was still able to remain somewhat logical for the moment. Perhaps his hands _did_ grip those creamy thighs just a bit harder than before, but that was just for leverage…right?

He smiled and once more moved a bit further down the length with his mouth, causing a little jolt from the entire body of the other man. He giggled softly and reached a hand up to grasp the base. But as he did, he felt the slackness of Sherlock's muscles change ever so slightly. He pulled back and replaced the sheets where they had been, laying back on his side beside the unruly curls. His hand shot out to smooth a few back as those crystalline eyes opened and turned to find his own.

"Welcome back. I was getting bored waiting for you," Jim said as he began to pull his hand back. But he found his wrist suddenly grasped in those long fingers. And Sherlock's eyes were on him. Oh, they were on him, over him, _in_ him….. He shivered as those fingers ran softly down his forearm and up to his shoulder. Skin blazed with fiery sensation where the other man's touch had grazed. He watched intently, as the detective seemed to be doing some research of his own, making some decision... Though surely he must have realized his own aroused state by now…..

Sherlock's hand darted quickly behind his head, and the detective rolled sideways to bring their lips crashing together and his arms to Jim's waist. Surprise! It was both a fierce and determined gesture; meant as a test, a question, an opening…and Jim took it, kissing back as ferociously as was given to him for a minute before slowing it a bit and wondering at his luck. The wild haired man before him began to give a little, too, becoming less aggressive as Jim pulled away, tugging Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth as he did. The taller man's arms slid further around the criminal's waist and then tugged him closer unexpectedly, putting a small crack in Jim's carefully constructed control. The resulting expression on Jim's face was animalistic, yet cautionary….._dangerous_.

Those deceitfully honest brown eyes bore into his own as they stared in mute examination of one another. Sherlock's eyes went to the other man's mouth, so tempting just to give in a bit more, go a little farther. It gave him a feeling of giddiness that bordered on nausea. _Why_ was this so wrong? He still hadn't found a suitable explanation. And Moriarty seemed to sense the emerging acceptance in the detective, the intensity behind his gaze dimming somewhat, turning less controlling, less dominating…more seductive. And he smiled lazily, closing his eyes half-way and pulling Sherlock into a more gentle form of a kiss. And those long poet's fingers came up to rest behind Jim's head once more, entwining themselves in his soft hair. Those same confused feelings continued to well up even stronger from within the detective, though, as he fought to remain in control. The same questions returned over and over in circular thought patterns. What is this? _Why_ is this forbidden? Yet there were no answers to be had except those passing between the lips of the world's only consulting criminal. And even those simple truths were trapped between their shared breaths; sealed, as it were, with a kiss.

He brought his arm up and out from behind Jim's head, and was about to reposition it elsewhere, when something caught his eye. JOHN. And his head felt as though ice water had been dumped over it, frozen shock racing along his nerves. All of his current emotions were quenched from him suddenly, and he went still in Jim's arms, who looked back at him questioningly. Sherlock rolled over and away, pulling the sheet more securely around himself as he did. He ran a hand through his hair, seeking desperately for why that had just happened; finding nothing…yet again. He sat up and then stood, almost stumbling as he sought out his bed. His eyes found Jim's once, and they were full of confusion and many many other emotions that he couldn't deal with right then, couldn't sort. The detective lay down on the bed, almost falling across it really, and turned over, saying only, "Goodnight, Jim."

The consulting criminal, still on the floor, stared in a shocked disbelief that was rapidly becoming anger. He stood, suddenly, hands clenching. The need for violence thrummed through his being. No one _ever_ did this to James Moriarty! _No one_. Not anymore. When they tried, they…disappeared. He crossed to the nightstand and hefted the gun in his hand, turning its end over towards the detective's head. Sherlock….could disappear. He quickly checked to be sure the next pull on the trigger would end with a bang. And then he rested its barrel against the other man's temple. Sherlock gave no reaction to indicate awareness of current events, just lying there as if already dead. Jim's mind screamed at him to not take the rejection, to not allow such disobedience. His body was full of a different kind of fire now, as he stood glaring down at his peaceful nemesis. The need for blood was heady and powerful, a different, darker kind of addiction. But the screaming subsided a bit as the more philosophical part of his brain fought to the fore. His head tilted left, as if curious to see what his intemperate mind would do now. And new thoughts presented themselves as he did.

He had often wondered why he and Sherlock shared such an instantly intense, indivisible, and unbreakable mental attraction to each other. But as he continued to look down upon the man before him, he slowly felt an understanding take shape. And it both worried, angered, and excited him. For what were love and hate but opposite ends of the same emotion, the same spectrum? One so easily gravitated into the other, as evidenced by his actions this very night. So which was it? Love…..hate…..love…..hate…..love…..hate…..? It seemed to repeat with each beat of his heart, resonating within him. He shook his head clear, and let the gun fall back to his side. A problem with a solution for another night then…..and, perhaps…the solution to his _final_ problem? The one he had sought for so long…. _Another night_.

With not much else to do, Jim stared at Sherlock's back for a long time. He glanced at his groin, grimacing at the still-hard proof of at least some level of attraction between them. _Have to do something about that_. Then his hand became more fully conscious of the cold metal it held, and his thoughts drifted to the other door man from earlier. He hadn't reacted as Jim would prefer his men to. He was just…too scared. Too slow. Not enough balls to even _act_ like he wasn't terrified. And that was a potential breach as far as Jim was concerned when it came to lower classed minds than his. He glanced at the form on the bed. And Sherlock's. He sighed, thinking of the next day. Now, after the next few minutes, he'd have to find _two_ replacements. He shrugged, _Oh well_, stepping around the insanity within the maze of the sheet fort. He clicked the light off as he went, leaving the detective in darkness once more…..just a different kind this time around.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Hope y'all are enjoying! Revella has been a huge conspirator with this fic, so you have her to thank for the regular postings, as she keeps me moving forward with her shared excitement. Enjoy!

Today was the day. Jim sprang from his bed, as empty as he wanted his heart to seem. He walked to the window, throwing it open so that the sun burst into the room and flowed over his pale skin. _So like __**his**_….words unbidden from his mind as he remembered last night. Then reality intruded on his daydreams. Sherlock Holmes was _not_ his yet, and nothing had actually happened. But that would be rectified…soon. He looked out over the grass beyond his window. The mansion and holdings were vast and isolated. The property of an elderly heiress to a wealthy family whose fortune had been made in the Americas but sent home to England. There wasn't much family left to inform of her passing (that hadn't been opportunely taken care of, anyway), except for an estranged nephew conveniently located at the last minute: Mr. Richard Brooks. He smiled at his play on words as he scanned the perfectly manicured lawn. It truly was a beautiful home, and in just the perfect location to place them out of mainstream society's roving eye. He continued smiling as he contemplated the day's events to come.

They would be going shopping. Car shopping. Well, they would at least _look_ like they were anyway. He needed to begin testing Sherlock's moral fiber, though he suspected that without John's grounding influence, it would be closer to his own. And so they would shop, test drive, and…..not come back. He laughed a little. It was perfect. He would be the one driving and stealing, true, but Sherlock would know beforehand what they were doing, so that he could still be considered a participant in the event. And it would also be the first time he would allow Sherlock out of the direct watchful eyes of his men. It would be just him, and Jim; any backup support that Jim had access to would be a goodly distance away; so if the detective tried escaping, he _would_ be caught. But Jim would know then that his techniques weren't fully effective. A test, of sorts, if one wished to put definitions on such things. He had a sneaking suspicion, though, that it wouldn't come to that. And _that_…that, was worth any minor inconveniences in between. He stretched up towards the ceiling, basking in the warm light. Sherlock was his; he just didn't know it yet.

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Pale eyes opened to the sound of an orchestra, light and faint, drifting through the doorway. Vision centered, then focused on the ceiling above him; he placed the sound. Dvorak: Concerto for Cello. _And __**I'm**__ the odd one, then?_ he snorted. Not that there was anything _wrong_ with the music in general; it just seemed a strange choice for an early morning song to be running over the intercom system. He moved to raise his arm above the duvet and froze at the feeling of fabric against his skin. He distinctly remembered falling asleep in his sheet…and _only_ his sheet..…what was this? In one quick, violent motion, he yanked the coverlets and sheet from his body and gazed downward….to find himself fully clothed, except for a suit jacket. He did an internal scan of his garments by feel. Trousers: check. Undershirt: check. Dress shirt: check. Socks: check. Shoes: check. Underpants (what the _bloody_ hell?!): check.

But he didn't rise to the bait. _He wants me to become unhinged, unbalanced; and thinks by doing little things like this, he will chip away at me slowly_. So he simply sat up and threw his legs over the side, looking toward the wardrobe with an idea forming. _Yes, perfect_, he thought as he pushed off from the bed and over to the clothes waiting within that construction. However, his ideas of changing from the suit Jim had obviously preferred dimmed considerably when he saw the contents. There before him, in orderly fashion, hung perhaps 15 replicas of the very suit he was already wearing, just each in a shade slightly different than the one preceding it. He growled softly at the cleverness of this ploy. And he turned from the double doors, leaving them hanging ajar. His eyes roamed aimlessly as his mind sought solutions in the remainder of the room. They skid to a stop as they slid over the knife at the bedside, a smile finally making its way across the carefully blank countenance he usually put forth. He wondered absently if they were still recording his room. _I'll know in a minute…..._

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Jim sat at the far end of the sturdy, oaken breakfast table awaiting his 'guest' before dining himself. His eyes were glued to the doorway through which Sherlock would be coming any minute. He smiled inwardly at having had his people dress the detective, knowing the other man would find it unappealing (at the _least_). And he chortled a bit at the thought of the look on his face. But then his eyes flew wide as Sherlock rounded the corner, walked quickly to a seat about five feet from Jim, and plonked down casually. The sheet had made another appearance, it seemed. It was draped over himself much as it had been last night, and one edge slid off of the detective's thigh as he settled back, leaving no doubt as to his returned state of nudity beneath.

Seeing as how this was Sherlock Holmes, Jim's surprise lasted for no more than a few seconds before his eyes narrowed and he asked lightly, "So…..sleep alright?" He toyed with a fork in front of him, mirroring the detective's nonchalant manner. Allowing the other man to think he'd gotten one up on Jim was never an option. The wild haired man before him merely nodded in confirmation of his sleep quality, and he shifted a bit, causing the sheet to reveal ever more skin beneath, this time at the shoulder. This unconsciously drew Jim's gaze until he realized the ploy for what it was. The oldest trick in the book, but one normally plied by those of the opposite sex. He immediately recast his gaze to focus on his fingers, which splayed before him on the table top, before speaking.

"We'll be going out today, Sherlock, to a place where we'll need appearances very much _intact_." Jim ran his eyes loudly over the enveloped large child seated at the table with him. Still no verbal response from the other man, but there _was_ an almost inaudible grunt of half-acknowledgement. Jim's eyes narrowed, and his voice lost its cheer, leaving only deadpan, "You need to change." The detective merely shrugged, causing the sheet to slip even further from the shoulder, revealing the clavicle beneath it. Though his stare did not waver, Jim knew it was obvious to both that he was quite aware of that move. However, seeing that the game he played would lead no farther, Sherlock finally chose to respond, chin held high in childish petulance.

"Can't."

"Why not?" was preceded Jim's sigh.

"Nothing to wear."

…..? "What are you on about? Just put the suit back on."

" 'S gone."

"Gone?"

"Yyyep."

"Well, then there's _others_ in the _closet_," a bit more perturbed now.

"Gone, too," Sherlock retorted, examining the ceiling above now as if he hadn't a care in the world that he was basically naked and held prisoner by the greatest criminal mastermind of their time. And an insane one at that.

Moriarty stared Sherlock down, wondering at the man's responses when the detective suddenly reached under his sheet and pulled forth the suit he had woken in. He plopped it on the table, across a dish of fruit, where Jim could clearly see the shred patterns the knife had created throughout the garment. It looked as if a mad badger had attempted eating it, and afterward just gave up and shat on it instead. Jim ran a finger along the fabric and pinched one of the new 'tassels' between his fingers, face almost disbelieving as he glanced back up at the sheeted man. Sherlock's gaze never left his as he said slowly, and with a deeply serious tone, "I'm sorry," his eyes sparkled, "There were no survivors." And silence hung thick as Jim mouthed the words 'no survivors,' leaning back into his chair and placing a hand lightly over his mouth…..before beginning a slow smirk underneath…..that beget a full throated laugh. Was this what Dr. Watson dealt with on a daily basis?

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Unfortunately for Sherlock, a tailor was actually part of the staff, James being as conscientious of appearances as he was. And within a short couple of hours, the detective stood before a mirror in a recently altered Armani (the only grudging compromise he could wring out). And damned if he didn't feel at least a _little_ bit more himself now. _Might still shred it, though. Tell him I wanted to see which brand was the most durable of the two._ He gave an almost invisible half-smile at the thought.

Once dressed, Jim presented himself to Sherlock in all his posh glory, having chosen an autumn brown suit that gave his eyes a certain accentuation. The way the other man moved through a room was with total confidence in his own abilities and power. It was captivating to watch him order his underlings around. Men who hadn't a tenth of Moriarty's intelligence, chosen for their skills and dedication more so than anything else. They feared James, that was obvious to any who observed their interactions. But though they may be afraid of their leader, if anyone dared threaten that self-same man, they would turn on the person in question like rabid dogs. As Jim finished speaking with a man who bustled off to bring a car around, he spun to face Sherlock, eyes almost amber in their eagerness for the day to move on. If it wasn't for the obvious insanity that swam so near the surface of those eyes, Sherlock could almost be fooled into believing the man before him was an honest one. Almost. But no; he wasn't.

Much to the detective's surprise, Jim reached into a closet and brought forth the Belstaff, which he spun on display before playing the part of a gentleman helping a coat on. Sherlock sneered at the image but accepted the long coat nonetheless. It felt secure, grounding, to have it around him, though he couldn't place why. He felt more himself with _it_ on than like some dress-up puppet of Moriarty's. Jim noticed the change in him, too, it seemed, because his smile actually turned genuine, reaching his eyes for once and blocking the evil within. _Curious_… They left shortly after in a long, dark car, with long, dark windows. At which Sherlock had muttered, "Cliché," as they climbed inside. Every amenity one could ask for on a prolonged drive greeted him upon his entrance. A fully stocked mini-bar, TV, and snack tray. Soft leather interior with small travel pillows. Jim merely smiled as the detective stared at objects he found ridiculous to have in an automobile.

Once settled, the car pulled off from the main building. Then Jim and Sherlock stared at each other. Hard. Each assessing how to best handle this new situation, environment, in which they found themselves together. The consulting criminal was the first to break the silence, throwing his arms wide and kicking a leg up over his bench seat in a show of complete nonthreatening relaxation. Sherlock tilted his head as if studying the body language and leaned back somewhat himself as the other man spoke.

"So, you'll want to know where we're going," he stated. The detective grinned, watching as the lawn passed them by quickly. He turned his head as if he were merely going to pass the time with his observations. Silence continued to hang until just before they turned onto the main road to travel back towards London. Back to his 'friends,' his family. Mycroft. Sherlock's eyes darted over to Jim, who had a knowing smirk. The look put Sherlock off initially, as it gave him the impression that Jim knew what he was going to say. And just as he opened his mouth, the criminal cut him off…

"Yes, I know what you're thinking. But Sherlock, surely you know better?" The detective glared back at him, and Jim only smiled wider, saying, "You're thinking about the coat, your Belstaff, the tracking device Mycroft has in its hemming. Yes, it is still functional and will begin to signal in another few miles." Again, Sherlock stared at Jim, but this time with a touch of curiosity. "Yes, I left it alone…..but I also made others." Jim turned his head to gaze out at the passing countryside, "Fourteen others." He laughed a little and turned back to the man across from him. "Now, shall I tell you about the car we're going steal? It will be so fun, Sherlock!" The man looked just as a child on Christmas morning. But then, he adopted a thoughtful posture momentarily, "I haven't stolen a car, in person, since I was…oh….twelve." The idea seemed to cause some small amount of giddiness as Jim laughed harder and said, "Ah, but now it will be so much more fun with an accomplice."

Sherlock feigned indifference, though he could recall various experiments in the past which would have resulted in better data had he been able to steal various things, including cars. So the idea itself was appealing to him. Not as a criminal past time, mind, but as applied to certain theories and postulations he had made in the past about such things. But something had stopped him. What was it? Mycroft used to, but then for the last two or three years, he couldn't seem to remember his brother ever having had to step in. Why not? He cleared his mind and gave a short, "Mundane," before settling back down to enter his mind palace and evaluate this odd turn in his life. Moriarty rolled his eyes and pulled out his mobile, texting away as his own arch nemesis reclined dramatically across from him, his smirk never leaving.

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Mycroft's heart jumped as his computer's alert began. A few seconds later, the same notification was blaring on his cell phone. He looked at both screens, disbelieving. Sherlock. _Sherlock….._ After almost two weeks, finally a ping on the tracker in the man's coat. He had hoped against hope that it would be overlooked by someone, anyone, in Moriarty's employ. And just maybe it had. Yes! He began to issue frantic orders to those around him, and called DI Lestrade on the visual communicator. The worn and weary looking DI came onscreen within 30 seconds, seeming as if he must have run headlong from his office to get to the Yard's Board Room.

"Yeah, what is it?" His anxiety clear through his tone.

"Sherlock. The tracker. I'm sending the feed and the access. Pull it up on your side. We need everyone. _Now_!"

Greg nodded, not one to question. He was more a man of action. He called his team around, briefly outlining what was beginning. And they all turned as the larger projector brought the picture to their eyes. A digital map of London and the area immediately surrounding it appeared before them. And there, moving across one side of the map, was a small red blip. Sherlock Holmes. Finally. A collective, yet silent, peal of excitement rippled through those witnessing it. A communal feeling of resolve gathered within everyone present. They may not all agree with, or particularly care for, the detective's manner or methods, but they couldn't argue how much prestige their department had gained through his observations and assistance through the years. They owed him, at the very least. He was one of theirs. And then everyone was moving quickly back to their respective stations with renewed urgency and vigor. Mycroft could be heard through the speaker of Greg's earpiece.

"I am sending a team by air now."

"I'll cover ground, then, mate."

"Good. Good. Now, if we can…"

"_Boss_!" Mycroft was interrupted by one of Greg's officers yelling across at him. The man had remained staring at the screen, but now was focused on a different point. And Greg's heart dropped as he followed the gaze. Simultaneously, he heard the elder Holmes curse, vehemently. For there, on the screen, as he slowly approached it, was another red blip. And then another. The thrill of a minute before turned to jagged ice as more and more red dots began to incur on the map of London. He whispered into the now chilled atmosphere as he watched.

"Mycroft."

"Yes?" came a distinctly off key answer.

"Are any of these even the real Sherlock?"

The line went dead.

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Jim giggled as he held his phone to his ear, and the detective cracked an eye to locate the source of his amusement. This prompted an exaggerated finger-over-the-lips 'shhh' gesture from the consulting criminal. He seemed to be calling someone important. Maybe. And then he began to speak slowly, teasingly.

"Hello. Did you miss us? How do you like my little game of Marco Polo? No no. Don't speak. _Just. Find. Us_." And he hung up, looking triumphantly over at the reclined detective, who returned his look blankly. Jim spoke again, "Your friends at the Yard, and Mycroft, too, I would imagine, just had their communications cut for about twenty seconds so I could let them in on the little game I'm playing." The detective rolled over, facing into the seat, choosing to ignore the dig. "What they initially thought was your tracker returning their homing calls was just the first of the other fourteen copied trackers that I have entering the city at various points." He laughed again, this time at the other man's back. "Yours is still there, too. But it's mixed with the others. And they don't have the manpower to seek out all fifteen. So this outing will be doubly fun, don't you think?" In answer, Sherlock merely pulled his Belstaff tighter around himself as they traveled ever closer to his friends, who would never know if he had really been there or not. While to himself, he thought, _Just. Find. Us. _


End file.
